


Family

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-13 21:32:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 88,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4538130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Gascon lifted his head again, the movement placing an unbearable strain on his overtaxed shoulder muscles but he was determined to meet the man’s gaze. This was a question that he remembered the answer to and he grinned mirthlessly as he answered, “Family.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who's asked about my latest long story. Due to real life this one took a little more time to finish, but I'm finally ready to post. It's a companion piece to season 1, looking at the journey that our four boys take in order to become the Inseparables. Where possible, I've stayed true to canon, but I have also added extra scenes that flesh out the story. "Present Day" scenes comprise the framework for the story as a whole. 
> 
> Lastly, and most exciting for me, this story is a collaborative effort with another talented writer on this site, AZGirl. She has written one tag for each of the chapters in my story, many of which are missing scenes, as well as creating the beautiful icon for this story. If you don't want to miss out, I encourage you to read "Almost Family." Both stories will be posted daily. 
> 
> Thanks for giving both of these stories a try. Would love to hear from you and hear your thoughts about our collaborative endeavor. Enjoy!

“Tell me!” the man snarled, his demand accompanied by a vicious backhand blow that had the Musketeer’s vision swimming as his head snapped to the right. d’Artagnan allowed it to loll there for several seconds, gathering his strength and his breath at the brutality of the beating he’d taken which had left him barely capable of coherent thought beyond the myriad of aches that screamed for his attention.

 

He could no longer recall what information his captor was seeking, nor could he remember the details of the mission or the events that had brought him to be in this man’s hands. The only thing that he was certain of was that they would come for him. No matter what the man did to his body, his mind had retreated deeply inwards where a warm flame burned brightly and reminded him that he was not alone. A few months ago, he would not have been as certain, possibly failing under his attacker’s forceful hits, but in recent weeks, things had changed for him significantly, not the least of which was the attainment of his commission in the King’s Musketeers, bringing with it the leather pauldron that he’d worn with such pride until it had been ripped from his shoulder by the bandits.

 

d’Artagnan forced his head upwards, spitting a glob of blood from his mouth as he nearly gagged on the copper taste of the liquid. Where it came from, he knew not, his lips and the inside of his mouth shredded from repeated strikes to the face, which had his teeth gnashing against the tender skin. His focus still swam alarmingly making his stomach protest in sympathy but he swallowed determinedly as he slurred up at his captor, “No.” Regardless of the fact that he had no idea what the man wanted, the Gascon was steadfast in his determination that the bandit would receive no satisfaction, his only goal now to draw things out long enough so that his friends could rescue him.

 

The bandit screwed up his features at the beaten soldier who hung in front of him from his arms. They’d been deliberately cruel in their treatment of the man, certain that, as the youngest, he’d be the easiest one to break. Instead, the boy had fought like a demon, keeping his men busy long enough that the others had escaped, saving their own necks rather than coming to the young man’s aid. He’d tried to use that fact against the Musketeer, goading him with ugly words as he described the cowardice of the other soldiers as they’d fled, leaving him alone to face capture, but the words had provoked a surprising reaction from the young man, lips turning up in a hideous smile that pulled at split lips and caused them to begin bleeding again, the teeth underneath stained with red. “Good,” he’d said and then his expression had turned flat, as though he was drawing on some inner strength and preparing himself for what was to come. Rather than disheartening the boy, the words had someone buoyed him and the bandit had allowed fury to guide his fists as he’d pummeled the boy’s face and torso mercilessly.

 

Now, it was only the ropes that pulled the Musketeer’s arms up over his head that held him upright, kneeling on the cold ground beneath him, the ropes high enough that he couldn’t even sit back on his heels to alleviate some of the discomfort. He grasped the boy’s face cruelly, pressing filthy fingers into the Musketeer’s cheeks as he forced the young man to meet his flinty gaze, “You’ll die here if you don’t tell us what we want to know.” He held the Musketeer’s face for several long seconds as he waited for his words to sink in, searching the boy’s eyes for any sign that he’d accepted the statement.

 

d’Artagnan’s gaze showed no indications of defeat, his eyes turning darker and somewhat more dangerous as he spat back at the man as soon as his head was released, “You’ll die first.”

 

The man snorted in derision, staring down at the mangled body that had withstood so much abuse. “How can you possibly say something like that? Touched in the head, you are,” the man chuckled at his own words. “Who do you think is gonna save you?”

 

The Gascon lifted his head again, the movement placing an unbearable strain on his overtaxed shoulder muscles but he was determined to meet the man’s gaze. This was a question that he remembered the answer to and he grinned mirthlessly as he answered, “Family.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Digging his heels into his horse’s flanks, he urged the animal to move faster, closing the gap between himself and Aramis with a renewed determination to see his father’s killer pay for his crime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the incredibly warm welcome to this story! I hope you enjoy this next chapter and then check out the 2nd chapter of "Almost Family".

_ Months earlier: _

 

d'Artagnan still wasn’t sure how he felt about the odd turn that events had taken since his arrival in Paris. He’d been so certain of himself when he’d challenged Athos to a duel at the Musketeer garrison and, while he acknowledged the man’s greater skill, he couldn’t move beyond the feeling of annoyance at how easily he’d been dismissed by the man and his friends. Although he knew the men likely hadn’t intended the experience to be embarrassing, he’d been irritated at how condescending their dismissal of him had been.

 

When he’d returned to the Bonacieux residence, he’d been unsettled and disappointed with the outcome of his short adventure, the trip to the garrison producing nothing more than frustration and confusion when Athos had first refused to fight him and then freely given himself up for arrest. In addition to the black cloud that seemed to be hanging over his head, the ache in his ribs had escalated until he’d no longer been able to straighten in deference to his sore side. When Athos’ two friends had shown up at the Bonacieux house, d’Artagnan had been prepared to defend himself, his first thought that the men had come to finish what he’d started earlier, but they’d surprisingly come seeking information and ultimately help in clearing the older man’s name.

 

His anger at the man had warred with his need for justice, and after only a moment’s indecision, he’d gathered up his belongings and ridden with them to the inn where his father had died. He knew that being back there would be difficult, stirring up painful memories that he wasn’t yet prepared to deal with, but when the innkeeper had offered his condolences on his loss, his eyes had blurred with tears.

d’Artagnan had paused then, lingering with the innkeeper, hoping that Aramis and Porthos, who’d remained mounted and several feet away, would believe him to still be in conversation. Truthfully, he needed the time to blink the moisture away, and with a deep, cleansing breath he’d turned to the waiting men, leading them to exhume the body of the man he’d shot.

 

The revelation that the man he’d killed was not a Musketeer came as a surprise and d’Artagnan conceded to himself that although he was no fan of the men with whom he rode, his need for vengeance was strong and he would accompany the two for as long as their objectives remained the same, namely to discover the true killer’s identity. As they mounted once more, d’Artagnan’s breathing hitched for a moment as the pain in his side flared, and he caught the concerned look the Spaniard cast in his direction. For some reason, the expression fed his irritation and he nudged his horse forward, taking the lead as they rode along the banks of the frozen lake.

 

d’Artagnan wasn’t sure why these men seemed to aggravate him so. He recalled clearly the sting he’d felt at being bested by their swords and having the chance to seek justice ripped away from him, but he was normally more accepting, able to respect if not like the fact that the Musketeers’ skills exceeded his own, and it bothered him now that he’d been unable to come to terms with what had transpired earlier. He gritted his teeth, partly against the throb in his flank and partly in frustration. Since his father’s passing, his emotions had been out of control, his good-natured humour apparently having abandoned him as though accompanying his father’s soul when it had fled the man’s body.

 

He was distracted from his musings by Aramis, the man having moved closer as d’Artagnan’s pace had finally slowed, and he offered the Gascon one of his most charming smiles. “How are you faring?” the man asked, his smile faltering slightly at the look of confusion he received. “I was wondering about your chest,” Aramis motioned with a hand. “Madame Bonacieux was wrapping it when we interrupted.”

 

d’Artagnan couldn’t help the instinctive glance down to his sore side and missed Aramis’ knowing look, now having identified the injury on the boy’s left side. “Ribs?” he asked, raising a questioning eyebrow.

 

The Gascon’s expression turned dark as he nodded, “They’re fine.” Aramis’ face seemed to take on a look of amusement as he dipped his head in return, not believing the young man but willing to allow him his stubborn pride, as long as it didn’t interfere with their goal.

 

A low whistle had Aramis pulling up on his reins, the Gascon’s head swivelling in puzzlement for a moment before he followed suit and brought his horse to a standstill. The Musketeers had stopped behind him, and he turned his horse back to face them, observing as Porthos pointed out the features of the landscape around them. “This is where I’d plan an ambush,” he stated with certainty.

 

The Spaniard tilted his head in agreement and the two dismounted, edging over a small rise to find a barren patch of ground, covered in equal measure by snow and the bodies of several men, all of whom had been stripped of their uniforms and left on the frozen ground as carrion for the birds and other scavengers. d’Artagnan moved forward slowly, taking in the scene with wide eyes, having never experienced anything of the sort. Several feet to his left, Aramis had knelt beside one of the men, his hand holding onto something that hung round his chest, lips moving wordlessly with practiced ease.

 

Porthos moved from one body to the next, confirming the identity of their missing Musketeers and then coming back to stand next to the Gascon as Aramis moved to another fallen comrade. “What is he doing?” d’Artagnan asked, curiosity mixing with impatience at his need to be on the move once more.

 

Porthos gave him a sideways glance as he answered, voice quiet as if not wanting to disturb the morbid silence that surround them. “Last rites,” he stated, “Aramis finds death a very serious business.”

 

The reply had d’Artagnan’s head jerking to look at the larger man in surprise, hissing as he tried to keep his voice low as well, “But they’re already dead and we don’t have time for this.”

 

Porthos’ eyes narrowed at the vehemence in the young man’s tone, “Won’t take but a few minutes.”

 

“But, Athos,” the Gascon began, only to be interrupted.

 

“Athos would understand. Wouldn’t you want someone to say a prayer over you, help ease your soul’s journey to heaven?”

 

d’Artagnan’s mouth snapped closed as his thoughts turned again to his father, the man lying limply in his arms as the rain poured down, the tears running down his face mixing with the water that seemed to flow over and around them, turning the world to mud. He’d sat there until the innkeeper had forced him to move, his body barely even shivering any more after having been out in the cold rain for so long. There had been no one to say a prayer and no friends with whom to share his sorrow, the trip back to Gascony too long to undertake with his father’s body so he’d been buried in the nearby village cemetery, just another cross among the others. The innkeeper had been kind enough to join him and d’Artagnan had spoken a few words of a Gascon prayer he remembered from his mother; then he’d mounted his horse and set his sights on Paris, driven by the need for revenge as his grief nearly blinded him.

 

“Let’s go,” a hand landed on his arm, jarring him from his thoughts, and d’Artagnan berated himself silently for his lack of attention. With a short nod, he headed back to this horse, only to be stopped before he’d mounted by Porthos’ discovery of Spanish gold.

 

When Porthos had shared his earlier experience of seeing similar coins in the hands of a Red Guard, they moved to pull themselves onto the horses once more, d’Artagnan’s actions hitching for a second at the pull on his sore side. Before he could try again to mount, Aramis’ hand was on his shoulder, startling him for the second time in as many minutes and the Gascon inwardly cursed his poor focus that allowed these men to continuously sneak up on him.

 

“Your side,” Aramis stated pointedly, ignoring the look of irritation on the young man’s face.

 

“It’s fine,” he gritted out, barely able to keep a civil tongue at the man’s pestering.

 

“It’s not fine, and you’ve been favoring it since we started riding. Let me at least bind your ribs for you to ease the pain,” Aramis offered, watching the boy closely to gauge his reaction.

 

d’Artagnan dropped his head for a moment, breathing deeply despite the ache in his side as he tried to push aside his frustration at the man’s ongoing interference. Raising his head, he met the Spaniard’s gaze evenly and replied, “That’s really not necessary…”

 

“Of course it’s necessary,” Aramis interrupted, determined to get his way even if he had to bully the young man into complying. “Don’t you know how dangerous it is to ride with cracked or broken ribs?” He didn’t even pause to hear a response, the question obviously rhetorical. “You could easily have one of them puncture a lung and then there’d be no saving you, bringing the d’Artagnan line to an unceremonious end, your father’s death still unavenged.”

 

Aramis inwardly cringed at his words, especially when he saw the flinch of the young man’s face, but he was intentionally being crass in order to get his own way, knowing exactly what buttons to push that would have the stubborn Gascon agreeing.

 

“Fine,” d’Artagnan ground out. He dropped his hands from where he still held his reins and saddle horn, stepping back from the animal to allow Aramis the space he needed.

 

Aramis shared a quick glance with Porthos, the latter ducking his head away quickly to hide the grin that now split his face at his friend’s satisfaction. What Aramis had said was true, but it was also likely that the young man’s injury wasn’t all that severe if he’d managed to stay in the saddle this long. Still, the medic’s protective nature would not allow anyone to be in pain if it could be avoided and so, welcome or not, d’Artagnan would be on the receiving end of Aramis’ care.

 

The Spaniard led d’Artagnan several steps away to a large boulder, pushing him to sit down while the Gascon impatiently rolled his eyes. “Take off your doublet and shirt,” Aramis ordered, already turning to retrieve supplies from his saddlebag. The Gascon huffed but did as he’d been asked, shivering as the cool air touched his bare skin.

 

“Is this really necessary?” he asked with barely masked exasperation as Aramis crouched down beside him and began pressing against the impressive bruising on his side. The medic gave him a withering look but didn’t reply, continuing to focus on the bones beneath his fingers.

 

When he’d finished, he breathed out a sigh of relief, “Cracked but not broken.”

 

“So all this fuss is for nothing,” d’Artagnan huffed.

 

Aramis looked up at him sharply, hands stilling where they’d been preparing the linen that would bind the boy’s ribs. “Injury is nothing to be trifled with and cracked ribs can easily become broken with enough jostling. By rights you should be tucked up in bed for a few days instead of galloping around the countryside with us. However, since we have need of your assistance, the least I can do is ensure you don’t die as a result.” Picking up the bandage again he said, “Hold still and breath normally, or this will be too loose.”

 

d’Artagnan’s face flushed at the rebuke he’d received, a quick glance at Porthos confirming that he would get little sympathy from the other Musketeer who looked like he was struggling to keep a smile off his face. He sat rigidly, allowing the medic to wrap the linen tightly around his chest, the whole while staring stonily at a point past the medic’s shoulder, fuming at how he’d been spoken to. It was not like these men had any authority over him and the last person in the world who had the right to discipline him like a wayward child had departed this mortal plane just days prior. The thought that he would never again hear his father’s words, whether they were spoken in anger or happiness, made his breath catch, and Aramis’ hands paused, his face filled with compassion as he asked, “Am I hurting you?”

 

The Gascon shook his head but refused to meet the man’s eyes, angry at the moisture that was welling up again. As if sensing the young man’s distress, the medic finished and laid a hand gently on one shoulder, squeezing it for a moment before he spoke. “All done. Let me know if this becomes too uncomfortable.” He stayed in front of the boy for several seconds, waiting for the Gascon to finally look at him and, after receiving a short nod, he released his grip and stood, moving to stand next to Porthos’ horse while the young man dressed.

 

“He’s havin’ a hard time of things,” Porthos said lowly, not wanting his words to go any further than his friend’s ears.

 

Aramis hummed in reply, “His father’s death is fresh and he’s had little opportunity to mourn. It makes him easy to anger and quick to act.”

 

Porthos nodded slowly, understanding the medic’s words, “Then we’ll just need to keep an eye on him so his hot head doesn’t get him into any trouble that his body can’t get him out of.”

 

Aramis patted the neck of Porthos’ horse and moved back to his own, trusting that d’Artagnan would have had sufficient time to dress and was ready to depart. He mounted almost in concert with the young man and they followed Porthos on the road back to Paris.

 

d’Artagnan intentionally positioned himself at the back of their group, unwilling to admit that his ribs felt much better now that they were supported, his breaths coming easier and with far less pain. He wondered at the men’s reasons for tending to his injury. Surely they should be focused on clearing Athos’ name, not wasting valuable time worrying about the minor inconvenience of his sore flank. Still, Aramis had tended him with care and concern, his touch practiced and gentle, not wanting to intentionally cause additional pain. Even more confusing was that Porthos seemed to agree with his friend’s desire to wrap d’Artagnan’s ribs, when earlier, the two Musketeers had made it clear that they would stalwartly stand at Athos’ side against anyone who threatened him.

 

It was a paradox that made d’Artagnan’s head hurt, and he longed for the moment when he could remove himself from the Musketeers’ company rather than continue to struggle with their odd behaviour. But, for that to happen, they needed clear the older man’s name and their best lead was currently somewhere in Paris. Digging his heels into his horse’s flanks, he urged the animal to move faster, closing the gap between himself and Aramis with a renewed determination to see his father’s killer pay for his crime.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Closing his eyes against the tears that now threatened, he prayed that the next day would bring more hope than the previous ones had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the wonderful feedback on the last chapter as the story took a look at the past. There will be more "present day" scenes ahead, but first, more of episode 1.

The trip back to Paris was something of a blur for d’Artagnan, their horses being pushed to move as swiftly as possible along the half-frozen ground, time slipping through their fingers with each movement of the weak sun above their heads. Porthos had stormed into the tavern in search of Dujon, the Musketeer a force to be reckoned with and not to be deterred by the barkeeper’s lies. He’d reacted swiftly at Dujon’s appearance, subduing the man with an ease that had the Gascon grudgingly admiring the large man’s skill.

 

Their interrogation of the Red Guard had d’Artagnan both chafing with impatience, believing that a sound thrashing was the best method of getting the information they sought, and then snorting with derision at how easily their captive had given up his secrets after Aramis’ fake shot, completed with an overly dramatic flair. As he’d watched the interplay between the two Musketeers, he recognized how well the two complemented one another, each man seemingly understanding his role in relation to his comrade and d’Artagnan wondered at how two people, who were obviously very different, could at the same time be so in sync. It was yet another thing that his overtaxed brain could not comprehend and he finally pushed the thought away, his attention reasserting itself to focus on the conversation that now passed between the two soldiers as they discussed their next move.

 

The Gascon moved closer, making it clear with his physical presence that he would not be left behind, his part in the drama not yet complete as he felt his heart clench once more with the raw need to bring his father’s killer to account. Porthos glanced in his direction, the expression he wore tolerant with a hint of amusement and d’Artagnan steadfastly ignored it, feeling the familiar sensation of annoyance rising once more in reaction. They’d ridden out to the old ruins where Gaudet and his men were apparently camped, the leader of the group the man who had allegedly fired the shot that had killed the elder d’Artagnan. As such, the leader of the Red Guards now wore a target on his back, even though he was not yet aware of his impending doom.

 

At d’Artagnan’s insistence, the Musketeers had petitioned Madame Bonacieux for help with their plan to gain entry into the ruins, and Aramis silently applauded the young man for his ingenuity in coming up with the idea as well as his charm in convincing the woman to agree. Clearly, there was more to the boy than simply the bold, brash front that they had so far been exposed to, the façade hiding intelligence and wit, both of which he knew how to use to his advantage. As a handsome man himself, Aramis recognized the value of being able to influence others with sweet words and a welcoming smile, something he’d used to his benefit many times over both in and out of service to the King.

 

They now stood poised to attack, surveying the scene in front of them and strategizing the best way to approach the coming battle given the overwhelming odds against them. “Wait for my signal,” Aramis ordered, “surprise is everything.” Moments later the Gascon broke cover, running directly toward Gaudet as he screamed the man’s name. “Surprise would’ve been everything,” Aramis muttered, already preparing himself to follow.

 

Porthos felt a flash of irritation at the young man’s actions, knowing fully how difficult things would now be for them, regardless of the fact that he understood the boy’s motivations for attacking. “Come on, then,” the large Musketeer grumbled. “Can’t let him get ‘imself killed.”

 

Aramis flashed a smile in return before both men threw themselves into the fray, easily finding opponents of their own to engage while the Gascon chased Gaudet. d’Artagnan had been schooled in swordplay since he was old enough to lift a blade, his father recognizing his natural affinity and encouraging it as best as he’d been able. When his son’s abilities had outstripped his own, he’d found others with whom d’Artagnan could practice, always reminding him that the skills he was learning were to be used with compassion and control, and never for gain or in anger.

 

As the young man stepped into another strike, the force amplified by the pain of his grief, he wondered what his father would think of his actions. Likely, he would counsel against this course if he were able, but d’Artagnan’s mind was too clouded with sorrow for rational thought to prevail. He roared as he stepped into another hit, Gaudet easily spinning out of the way, planting an elbow solidly in the Gascon’s side in return before he finished the move and ended several steps away from the outraged young man. d’Artagnan ignored the pain that flared in his side, adrenaline masking the worst of it and filling him with the strength he needed to bring his adversary to the ground.

 

Chest heaving as he struggled to get enough air, the Gascon leaned over Gaudet, a sword in both hands and ready to deliver the killing strike when a voice interrupted him. “d’Artagnan,” Aramis called, “we need him alive.”

 

Several long seconds passed as the young man waged an internal battle, his desire to spill the man’s blood warring with the honorable path to justice. Finally, the latter won out and in frustration he removed the blades, hissing at the defeated man, “Death in combat is too honorable for you. I’d rather see you hang.”

 

As he turned and walked away, suddenly overcome with fatigue after the events of the last few days, the voice called out to him again, this time the tone carrying a note of panic, “d’Artagnan!”

 

He moved smoothly as he’d practiced many times before, with his father and with others, and turned while at the same time lifting his sword, the blade sliding into Gaudet’s body as the man attacked. When the Red Guard slipped off his sword, d’Artagnan stared at him in shock, the implication of the man’s death washing over him and taking his breath away – he’d just condemned Athos to death.

 

A low whistle pulled his attention away from the dead man at his feet and he and Aramis turned to face Porthos who was pulling Musketeer pauldrons from the back of a wagon. “The stolen uniforms; they’re all here.”

 

Aramis breathed a sigh of relief, “With Dujon’s confession, that’s all the proof we need.”

 

d’Artagnan didn’t think it was possible to feel weak with relief, but he did, the responsibility for Athos’ impending execution lifting off him like a great weight and he found he could breathe easier once more. Things moved quickly from that point, Aramis and Porthos taking the evidence they’d collected first to Treville and then to the King, securing Athos’ pardon. d’Artagnan in the meantime escorted Constance home and found himself following the two Musketeers back to the Chatelet where they arrived just in time to stay Athos’ sentence.

 

The Gascon observed the older Musketeer’s reaction and was surprised by his apparent readiness to die, even goading the men to hurry up and shoot when they seemed to take too long. He’d remained on the stairs while the other two moved to stand at Athos’ side, the reunion obviously a happy one although the men were deliberately restrained while in front of the firing squad. As Athos stepped from the pit, he gave d’Artagnan an odd look, and one that the Gascon could not decipher, wondering if the man was grateful, annoyed, or completely indifferent at his presence there. For some reason, d’Artagnan hoped it might be annoyance, his pride still stinging at his earlier defeat; as a result, he offered the man one of his cheekier grins that had always aggravated his father.

 

At the thought of his father, the grin slipped and he realized that Gaudet’s death hadn’t changed a thing. He was still alone in the world, with no prospects and few funds, and the only path that seemed open to him was to return to his family’s farm to try and make a go of things. Everything his father had tried to accomplish was gone, his goal of petitioning the King a forgotten dream, and no one in Paris would even remember him or his family’s name. The realization was a sobering one and d’Artagnan found his feet heavy as he turned and followed the others up the stairs and out of the prison.

 

When they reached the doors and stood facing the busy Parisian street, Athos turned to him, apparently searching for the right words before simply saying, “Thank you. I understand that you helped clear my name and I’m grateful for your assistance.” He began to turn away, the two Musketeers flanking him and ready to follow before he paused and looked back. “My condolences on your loss.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded and then looked away, his eyes filling with unshed tears for his father, the grief threatening to encompass him now that the rage was beginning to seep from his body. He leaned against the wall of the prison and stared sightlessly at the ground, unable to think what he should do next.

 

As the Musketeers walked slowly away, Porthos threw a glance back over his shoulder, easily recognizing the anguish that held the boy in its grip. “We just gonna leave him here?” he asked.

 

Aramis met his eyes and gave a slight shrug of his shoulders but it was Athos who replied, “I’m certain he has matters to attend to with his father’s passing.”

 

The sharpshooter interjected then, “Perhaps we should invite him for a drink?” At Athos’ glare, he hastened to add, “As a way of thanking him for his assistance.”

 

“Surely he has better things to do with his time than drink with Musketeers,” Athos declared dryly, still unwilling to include the boy in their plans.

 

“Athos, you know what it’s like to feel all alone. Just one act of kindness to help the lad get over his father’s death,” Porthos countered.

 

“It does seem the thing to do, given he helped save your life,” Aramis added, hoping his words would sway the older man.

 

Athos rolled his eyes at the two men, uncertain why they felt the need to include the young man, but grudgingly conceding that a drink was likely the least he owed the boy in exchange for the assistance he’d provided. With an indifferent wave of his hand, he indicated his acquiescence to his friends’ suggestion, a sly grin appearing at once on Aramis’ face as he turned and walked the few steps back to the Gascon, the young man still bracing himself against the wall of the prison.

 

“We’re heading to the Wren for a celebratory drink. Would you care to join us?” he asked.

 

d’Artagnan’s expression looked panicked for a moment, and Aramis wondered if he’d miscalculated and perhaps Athos had been correct in wanting to leave the boy alone. Several seconds passed before the Gascon gave a shaky head nod, falling into step with the marksman, the man patting his arm as he exclaimed, “Excellent.”

 

The Wren was one of the better taverns in town, frequented by a number of soldiers from various regiments and, as such, served a slightly less offensive brew to its clientele. While Aramis and Porthos had secured a table for themselves, inviting the Gascon to join them, Athos quickly purchased his own bottle of wine and found a spot to himself, thoughtfully downing its contents.

 

“What’s wrong with him, anyway?” d’Artagnan asked, curiosity overcoming his initial dislike of the men, the wine he’d consumed dulling some of the sharp edges that had appeared since his father’s death.

 

“Ah, woman trouble,” Porthos replied, his eyes glancing momentarily at the man in question, confirming that he was still alright.

 

“There was someone special once. She died, that’s all he ever said” Aramis added, careful not to share too much of Athos’ history with the young man who was still a stranger, regardless of his recent actions.

 

“Why does he drink alone?” d’Artagnan persisted, his gaze still firmly on the older man.

 

“Ah, our Athos takes his drinking very seriously,” Aramis replied with a glint of amusement in his eyes. The resemblance to Porthos’ earlier words about Aramis wasn’t lost on d’Artagnan and he wondered what the larger man was serious about, as it seemed they all had their individual quirks.

 

Aramis rose from his seat, his natural care-giving instincts kicking in as he asked, “Do you need a place to stay?”

 

“No, I have somewhere,” d’Artagnan replied quickly, avoiding the possibility that the man might offer him a place since he was still uncertain of his feelings towards them.

 

The men teased him about spending the night with Constance, an idea that he spoke against vehemently before disclosing the most minor details of his encounter with Milady. She was not a woman who he’d be actively pursuing, at least not in the way in which the Musketeers imagined. Once the sharpshooter had left, Porthos staying in his seat to wait for Athos to finish, the large man turned to the Gascon and suggested a game of cards.

 

d’Artagnan’s face flushed, games of chance not really something he had experience with and he thought guiltily of the light purse that hung at his belt, the few remaining coins barely enough to sustain him for his journey back home. Affecting what he hoped was a suitably regretful smile, he declined the man’s offer, “Thanks, but no. The past few days have been tiring and I want nothing more than to get some sleep.”

 

Porthos didn’t seem overly upset at the reply and merely waved a hand in acknowledgement, already shuffling the deck he held in his hands, readying to amuse himself alone. d’Artagnan stood from the table and gave a nod of his head in return, unable to stop himself from looking back at Athos one last time, the older man unnervingly watching him as well and offering nothing more than a serious tilt of his head. The Gascon tore his eyes away quickly, surprised at having been caught staring at the man, and he navigated through the furniture and patrons in the heavily crowded bar, stopping only once he was outside to lean against the wall of the tavern.

 

Now what, he asked himself, relishing the fact that he was finally alone and had an opportunity to properly collect his thoughts. Since he’d challenged Athos at the garrison, events had been moving quickly, one thing flowing into the next with a dizzying speed that had left little time for rational thought. He’d been swept up in the search for justice and had willingly gone along with the others to find his father’s killer and clear Athos’ name.

 

It was as though the goal had given him the energy he’d needed to keep going, overcoming his body’s need for rest and food, unable to stop or even slow down while there was a task to be done. Now that they’d successfully accomplished what they’d set out to do, d’Artagnan was at loose ends. His sole focus after his father’s death had been revenge, and now that Gaudet was dead, he had no idea what to do next. Aramis’ invitation to join them at the tavern had been a timely and welcome distraction, but that was all it was, still offering no further salvation nor direction beyond what he’d had before.

 

Now, it was late into the evening, and while he’d told Aramis that he had a place to stay, he’d been unwilling to admit that he had no idea where he’d be spending the night. The idea of going back to the Bonacieux house beckoned, but he considered it only fleetingly, not wanting to disturb her at such a late hour and uncertain if he’d even be welcome. Securing a room at an inn would be the next logical course of action, but his nearly-empty purse reminded him that he’d soon be making a choice between stabling his horse, eating, and having a roof over his head – of the three, the last seemed to be the easiest to forfeit, at least in the short term.

 

Sighing heavily, he flinched as the action pulled on his aching ribs. He was reminded of the lucky hit that Gaudet had landed, jarring his already fragile ribcage and making him momentarily see spots as his vision had dangerously narrowed. He pushed away from the tavern and began to walk, placing a hand against his side to brace his sore flank, knowing very little of the Parisian streets and unsurprised when he stopped to find himself standing at the stables where he’d left his horse. Some part of his mind had unconsciously known that this was his best option for him and he shook his head at what his father would say if he knew of his son’s actions. The thought was too depressing and d’Artagnan pushed it forcefully away, making his way slowly into the building and finding his steed. He crept in quietly and laid a hand on its neck, the velvety feel and scent of the animal calming him in its familiarity. “Looks like it’s just the two of us now,” he murmured, the horse nickering softly in reply.

 

d’Artagnan took a moment to look around; the stall his horse was in was fairly small and left little room for a full-grown man. He stepped back out and searched the others, finding an empty one nearby. With a groan, he added a layer of thick straw to the floor and the horse blanket that hung with the rest of his horse’s tack. With an uneasy sigh, he settled down for the night, fidgeting until he found a position that didn’t press on his sore ribs. Closing his eyes against the tears that now threatened, he prayed that the next day would bring more hope than the previous ones had.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos wondered why they were taking such an interest in the young man and how he’d managed to find so much trouble in such a short amount of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's continuing to read, comment and leave kudos on this story. Hope you enjoy this next chapter!

Waking up had been a challenge and Athos was grateful that, once his bloodshot eyes had agreed to focus, he was greeted by the familiar view of his ceiling. A groan was pushed from his chest as he forced himself into movement, recognizing by the amount of daylight in the room that it was time to rise and prepare for the day. While his friends made sure that he made it back to his apartments each night, Treville would have no tolerance for a Musketeer who was late for morning muster due to an overindulgence of drink.

 

He had little memory of the previous night, not unusual for those evenings when he drank even more than his tolerant body could endure. He’d never admit it to his friends, not aloud anyway, but his incarceration and near execution had shaken him – badly. Although Aramis had tried to make light of his comments to the firing squad, he knew the perceptive Spaniard recognized the words for what they truly were – bravado. As he’d been chained and faced the muskets, his heart had begun to beat so quickly that he was certain it would soon burst forth from his chest. The trembling in his limbs had followed until he’d expected to simply shake apart, saving the men the need to shoot.

 

He’d been more than relieved when his friends had appeared, his arms released from the chains that held him in place, and he’d forced weak legs to move, glancing briefly at the young man who stood expectantly on the stairs but sparing him no more than a glance and a nod, his mind not yet clear enough to comprehend the meaning of the boy’s presence. It wasn’t until the irons had been removed from his wrists, the skin underneath abraded and sore, that Porthos had leaned in to explain d’Artagnan’s involvement in his release, Aramis taking the opportunity to discreetly check him over for injury.

 

He’d allowed the medic a few moments, recognizing that his friends’ need to confirm his wellness was as great as his need to now be in their presence, the three drawing strength from each other and confirming that they all lived and had survived to fight another day. It also offered him the opportunity to reassert his mask, forcing strength into his shaky limbs even though he knew that the two men beside him would catch him if he faltered. Despite that knowledge, he was determined to appear unaffected, walking out of the prison a free man with his stoic expression firmly in place.

 

Once they stepped out of the oppressive walls of the Chatelet, the Comte and his years of training reasserted themselves and Athos had managed to thank the young man for his assistance as well as offering condolences on the loss of his father, remembering the event that had initially brought the boy to the garrison to challenge him. He’d been surprised when, as they began to walk away, Porthos and then Aramis had suggested inviting the young man along. He wasn’t certain why, but he’d bristled at the suggestion, something in the young man’s demeanor far too familiar and vulnerable for his liking and he would have liked nothing more than to walk away, never to run into the boy again. But his friends were insistent and he was weary, not up to arguing against the men’s suggestion and he’d capitulated rather than continuing to fight against their wishes.

 

In the end, it mattered little, as he’d taken his own table, away from the others but still close enough to feel their comfort, and did his best to wash away the memories of the past two days as well as those of his dead wife. His time in the Chatelet hadn’t been hard in and of itself, but it had provided him far too much time for sombre reflection, allowing him to relive time and again the moments with Anne and the events that led to her death. By the time he had his first bottle of wine in front of him, he prayed for nothing more than the sweet oblivion that the drink could provide, and he downed glass after glass of the thick liquid, barely tasting it as it passed over his tongue.

 

Clearly, his plan had succeeded as he had, for a time, forgotten and slept dreamlessly, the alcohol keeping his nightmares at bay. But the new day was upon him and he had responsibilities to fulfill, as well as somehow showing his appreciation to his friends. He recognized that they hadn’t done anything that he wouldn’t do for them, but felt it important that he acknowledged how hard they’d worked on his behalf, their faith in him the real thing that he was thankful for, since they’d believed in him unwaveringly. He drew a deep breath, the added oxygen helping to clear his throbbing head, and pushed himself to his feet as he made for the window where his bucket of water waited.

* * *

This time it was Aramis and Porthos who waited for Athos to join them, having reached the garrison earlier than their friend and already having been told to report to the Captain once their third arrived. They sat around the table, picking at their breakfast, passing the time until he joined them.

 

“Think he’ll be alright?” Porthos asked, popping a bite of bread into his mouth.

 

Aramis looked up surprised, wondering if there was something about Athos’ condition that was causing his friend concern, “Athos? Why, is something wrong?”  


“Nah, not Athos. The boy,” the large Musketeer corrected, his hand dropping to the table to trace the scarred top, testament to the many others who’d sat there before them.

 

The sharpshooter gave a shrug as he fussed with the feather that adorned his hat, “I don’t see why not. Is there a reason you ask?”

 

It was Porthos’ turn to shrug as he replied, “Not sure. Just a feelin’.”

 

Aramis looked up sharply at the man’s words, having learned after years of friendship that Porthos’ feelings should not be ignored. “What kind of feeling, exactly?” he pressed, trying to understand what was causing his friend to be troubled.

 

“Not sure I can explain,” Porthos said, rubbing a hand over his curls, “just, I know what it’s like to lose a parent.”

 

Understanding dawned for Aramis as he realized why the boy’s situation would have affected his friend so, having grown up without a father and losing his mother at a painfully young age. While d’Artagnan was significantly older, the loss of a parent was never easy to bear. Softening his tone, Aramis offered, “Perhaps we can stop by the Bonacieux house later and check on him?”

 

The suggestion was met with enthusiasm, and Aramis could see the relief on Porthos’ face as he smiled, happy that his friend understood and that he hadn’t had to explain further. Before they could say anything more on the topic, Athos arrived, plucking a piece of bread from the table as he nodded to both men in greeting.

 

“Treville wants to see us,” Aramis stated before the older man could sit down. The two rose and followed Athos up the stairs to the Captain’s office, pausing briefly to knock and gain permission to enter, before presenting themselves in front of the man.

 

Treville scrutinized them carefully, his gaze landing on Athos for several moments as he gauged the man’s condition. Clearing his throat, he spoke, “Athos, I’m glad to see you back. Are you alright?”

 

Athos gave a small tilt of his head as he confirmed, “Fit and ready for duty, Captain.”

 

Treville had expected nothing less and he looked to Aramis who nodded in return. Satisfied that the self-appointed medic in their group wouldn’t allow Athos back to duty if he was hurt, he explained, “I received a complaint this morning about a horse thief. They’ve caught the man and are holding him here.” He handed a piece of parchment to Athos that contained information about their destination. “I need you to get an account of what happened and escort the man to the Chatelet. Report back to me when you’ve finished.” He received three nods in reply and the men filed out again.

 

Their objective was within walking distance but the trip to the prison was a fair distance, and Athos preferred to ride there after collecting their prisoner, so they saddled their horses and headed out through the garrison gates. When they arrived, a man was waiting for them out front, clearly impatient at the amount of time it had taken for someone to respond to his claims. “Took you long enough. I don’t have all day to do your jobs for you,” the man said curtly, arms crossed.

 

Athos swallowed his sigh of frustration, the pounding of his head making it difficult to be patient with the man since this type of task was normally outside of their purview and it would have only been through extenuating circumstances that it had fallen to Treville to take care of. With a cleansing breath, he pinned the man with his best noble’s look of disdain and replied, “Apologies, Monsieur, but we are here now, so if you would be so kind as to explain what happened.”

 

The man huffed but his attitude changed slightly, recognizing Athos’ bearing and instinctively reacting to it although he likely didn’t realize he’d done so. “I found ‘im this morning, in one of the stalls. I’m sure he would’ve robbed me blind if I hadn’t gotten here earlier than normal. As it was, he put up one heck of a fight, but my boy, Rémy, whacked him over the head with a shovel. I’ve got him tied up in the back.”

 

The man looked incredibly satisfied with himself and Athos could tell by the look on his friends’ faces that Porthos was doing his best not to roll his eyes while Aramis was already wondering if their prisoner required medical care. Pushing away another urge to sigh, he gave the man a short nod, “If you would bring us to your prisoner?”

 

The man eagerly led them around the back of the building where they could make out the image of a man’s body leaning against a fence post. As they got closer, they could see that the man was actually tied to the post, his arms pulled behind him while his head hung low to his chest, likely as a result of the hit to the head he’d suffered. Aramis gave his head a small shake as he noted the prisoner’s slumped form, clearly offering no threat and making the bindings unnecessary.

 

Aramis was already issuing orders as they neared, ordering Porthos to untie the man so he could examine him, while Athos hung back with the owner of the stable. The medic approached cautiously, stopping a couple feet away and reaching forward with one hand to lift the man’s head to confirm that he was truly unconscious while Porthos stood expectantly behind their prisoner, ready with his knife. When Aramis lifted the man’s head up, he gasped in surprise, immediately recognizing the lax face. “Cut him free,” he hissed at the large man, turning back to glare at the owner. “This is no horse thief. Why do you falsely accuse him?”

 

Athos was as shocked as the man standing beside him at Aramis’ vehement words, and he took a moment to glance over the Spaniard’s shoulder to identify the unconscious man, the face now exposed as Aramis had left the boy’s head leaning against the post that secured him. Looking back at him was the face of the Gascon who’d helped free him, his expression waxy and a trickle of dried blood painting a trail down the right side of his face.

 

With effort, Athos pulled his attention back to the heated discussion taking place next to him, Aramis’ ire obvious in his stance and expression, the stable owner beginning to stutter in his explanation and cower away from the fearsome Musketeer. Deciding that it would be best to intervene before things escalated, he placed a hand on the medic’s shoulder, speaking calmly to still his friend’s anger, "Aramis, perhaps your energy would be better applied in tending to the boy.”

 

The medic stilled at once, he eyes darting back to the still body behind him, Porthos’ eyes pleading with him to compose himself and leave the stable owner to Athos. Aramis gave a short nod and turned back to his patient, crouching down beside the young man to examine the wound on his head while Porthos steadied the boy from behind since he’d released the ropes around his wrists.

 

Aramis’ fingers gently probed at d’Artagnan’s skull, finding a sizeable lump and split skin, noting its location for later so he could return to clean and stitch it. Grasping the young man’s head with one hand, he used the other to prise open the boy’s eyelids, lifting first one and then the other, gratified when the action elicited a groan and a weak attempt to shift away. Clasping the Gascon’s cheek with a hand, Aramis moved his other to the boy’s chest as he called, “d’Artagnan, open your eyes for me, lad. I need to know how you’re feeling.”

 

d’Artagnan tried to turn away from the voice, but the medic held his head firmly in place, earning another low moan of discomfort. The young man’s lids fluttered as he managed to prise them open for a second, closing them again almost immediately as the bright sunlight pierced through his brain. His complexion instantly turned green and Aramis turned the boy’s head, supporting his upper body as the young man retched helplessly, the pain in his head forcing him to expel the contents of his stomach. By the time he’d finished, he collapsed helplessly against the Musketeer who held him, lacking the strength or the coordination to hold himself up.

 

"He gonna be alright?" Porthos asked, his earlier concerns about the young man reasserting themselves.

 

Aramis gave a tight-lipped nod before turning to Athos, “He needs a bed where he can recover.”

 

The three men traded looks, Athos silently asking what Aramis intended to do while Porthos’ expression mirrored the medic’s, screaming that this was somehow their fault and they needed to bring the boy somewhere safe where they could tend to him. Athos allowed a sigh of annoyance to escape, recognizing that this was not a battle he would win, and he gave the men a tired nod. Porthos moved into action at once, coming around to help Aramis lift the boy to his feet, the Gascon’s head rolling as he tried to understand what was happening. “Wha’?” he slurred, the pain in his head fogging his brain.

 

“It’s Aramis and Porthos,” the medic spoke as they began to move, following Athos around to where they’d left their horses. “We’re taking you somewhere safe.” The only response he received was a groan as d’Artagnan did his best to move his feet, but continued to do little more than shuffle along as the two men took his weight.

 

When they reached their horses, Aramis announced, “He’ll ride with me.” Mounting first, he waited as the other two managed to get the Gascon up, seating the boy in front of him so he could hold onto the young man and prevent him from falling.

 

“Hold up a minute,” Porthos said as he sought out the stable owner. “Does he have a horse here?” The man looked uncomfortable, clearly having hoped that he would at least retain his alleged thief’s horse as a form of recompense. Correctly interpreting the man’s expression, the large Musketeer leaned forward menacingly as he ordered, “Go saddle it and bring it out here for me.” The man scurried away quickly to do as he’d been told. “Why don’t you go on ahead and I’ll catch up,” he suggested to his friends.

 

Aramis considered for a moment and then gave a dip of his head in agreement, Athos gaining his seat before the two rode away to return to the garrison, Porthos following minutes later with the Gascon’s horse in tow. The Captain was standing outside on the balcony overlooking the courtyard when Athos and Aramis returned, a half-aware Gascon lolling against the medic, occasionally rousing enough to mumble a few words before falling quiet again. The young man’s confusion was a normal side-effect of the concussion he’d suffered, and Aramis was not overly concerned, more anxious to get the boy lying down so he could place the stitches that would close the wound in his scalp.

 

Treville observed them with surprise, calling down once they’d come to a stop, “Who’s that?”

 

Athos looked up at the man’s question, “He’s the one who helped clear my name.” He paused for a moment and then continued, “And our alleged horse thief.”

 

The Captain’s face shadowed at his lieutenant’s words, “He’s innocent then?”

 

It was Aramis who answered this time, his impatience getting the better of him, “Yes, he’s innocent, now if you’ll excuse us Captain, I have a patient to attend.”

 

With a last glance to Athos, Treville gave a nod and the older Musketeer dismounted, handing his reins off to the stable boy so he could assist Aramis in getting d’Artagnan down from the other horse. The Gascon was far too pliable, making Athos grunt as he took most of the boy’s weight, his uncoordinated limbs making him difficult to hold onto and threatening to bring them to the ground. The older man was unimpressed and threw a glare in Aramis’ direction as the man dismounted smoothly, tucking his shoulder under d’Artagnan’s other arm, not the least bit fazed by his friend’s displeasure. “Come on; let’s get him to the infirmary.”

 

They half-carried the boy upstairs, receiving little assistance from the Gascon who was steadfastly doing his best to keep from being sick again. As they reached the walkway at the top, Athos paused, forcing Aramis to stop as well lest he be left holding the majority of d’Artagnan’s weight on his own. “What is it?” the medic asked, impatient to get the boy settled.

 

“It’s just…” Athos trailed off, uncertain about how to proceed and then second-guessing himself, wondering if he should remain silent.

 

“Athos,” Aramis prompted him, the young man becoming heavier the longer they stood in place.

 

“He’s liable to be uncomfortable enough with a concussion, let alone being brought to the garrison infirmary,” he stopped again, willing his friend to understand.

 

Aramis gave a quick nod in acknowledgment, “Right, there’s an empty room down this way.” Moments later they were in motion again, the Spaniard comprehending Athos’ hesitation. Suffering from a concussion meant sensitivity to both light and sound, and was usually accompanied by both sickness and a painfully sore head, neither of which would be helped by the bustle of the infirmary, invariably always filled by a handful of men. To add to the discomfort of his injuries, the Gascon was likely to feel strange being amidst strangers, especially so soon after his father’s death. Giving him a private space in which to recover was a kindness that cost them nothing, but that would likely make a world of difference to the young man.

 

They shouldered their way into the empty room, sitting d’Artagnan down on the sole chair. Aramis placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder as he spoke, hoping that the young man was coherent enough to understand, “I need you to sit here while I get my supplies. Can you do that?”

 

d’Artagnan gave a shaky nod, his eyes half-closed as he did his best to remain seated while the world around him swam and tilted alarmingly. He grasped the seat of the chair with one hand as he closed his eyes completely, hoping that not being able to see his surroundings would ease his sense of vertigo.

 

Aramis exchanged glances with Athos before quickly striding from the room, leaving the older man to collect clean linens from the chest so he could make up the bed. As he worked, he kept one eye on the Gascon, ready to dash over in an instant if the boy began to slip from the chair or appeared in need of the chamber pot. But d’Artagnan did neither of these things, even though he was beginning to list heavily to one side, catching himself and straightening before he could fall, unknowingly making Athos’ jaw clench anxiously as the Musketeer hurried to finish his task. When the bed was ready, Athos walked over to the boy, speaking softly so he wouldn’t be startled, “d’Artagnan, the bed is ready. I’ll help you over to it.”

 

Without waiting for a reply, Athos pulled the young man to his feet and tried to ignore the admiration that blossomed at the fact that the boy didn’t make a sound, biting his lip hard against the discomfort he experienced at the change in position. d’Artagnan did his best to carry some of his own weight, but still leaned heavily on the Musketeer as they travelled the few steps to the bed. Athos could feel the slight trembling of the Gascon’s body as he did his best to cope with the pain and nausea that he was no doubt still battling. Although the Musketeer knew little of the young man, he couldn’t help but compare him to Thomas, the vulnerability and need in the boy’s face painfully similar to the expression his brother wore each time he’d been ill.

 

Athos pushed the image of his dead brother aside, forcing himself to focus on the ungainly man in front of him who was beginning to slip sideways once more and the Musketeer simply guided him down to rest on the bed, deciding that it would be easier to allow the boy to lie down rather than keeping him upright. He stood, running a hand through his curls as he considered what to do next, Aramis still absent as he gathered his supplies, and the Gascon lying limply on the bed, struggling to even out his breathing as he coped with the nasty combination of a fragile head and stomach.

 

He was startled by a weak voice as d’Artagnan managed to prise his eyes open enough to see him standing there, “Don’t need to stay.” The words were barely louder than a whisper and for some reason, annoyance flared in Athos’ chest when he heard them.

 

“You’re in no condition to make me leave,” Athos countered, wincing to himself when he realized how childish his statement must sound.

 

Apparently the Gascon’s mind was too clouded to realize and he didn’t comment, instead asking, “Where ‘m I?”

 

Facts Athos could deal with, and he gladly clung to the new direction their conversation had taken, happy to leave his previous thoughts behind. “The Musketeers’ garrison.” When d’Artagnan stayed quiet, the older man continued. “How did you come to be tied up and accused of being a horse thief?”

 

d’Artagnan snorted, grimacing when the action spiked the throbbing in his head, and he swallowed carefully before answering, “Was only sleepin’.”

 

Athos’ brow furrowed at the implication that the young man had slept in the stable and was about to question the Gascon further but was interrupted by Aramis’ arrival.

 

“Ah,” Aramis nodded appreciatively at seeing the young man lying in bed. “How is our patient doing?”

 

“Fine,” Athos replied, preparing to leave. “You can ask him yourself.”

 

Aramis noted the boy’s half-lidded eyes and set his supplies down before bringing the chair to sit down next to the bed. As he began his examination, Athos stated, “I’m going to report to Treville.”

 

Aramis gave a distracted nod as he said, “Send Porthos up when he gets here.”

 

The older Musketeer gave a tilt of his head in reply but knew the medic hadn’t seen it, already leaning forward to care for the Gascon. As he left, Athos wondered why they were taking such an interest in the young man and how he’d managed to find so much trouble in such a short amount of time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, absolutely not, I forbid it,” Athos’ harsh words rolled over the Gascon, his temper flaring at the older man’s resistance. “This is Musketeer business and you should not be involved.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your continued support of this story and for AZGirl's companion story, Almost Family. I hope you enjoy this next part which includes a short look at "present day" events.

Waking up was a slow affair, punctuated by periods of half-wakefulness when he’d lain quietly in the space between awareness and sleep, his body slipping lazily back into darkness when the aches in his body became known. This time was different, he knew, the uncomfortable pressure in his bladder insisting that he pay attention and do something to relieve it. With a low groan, he rolled his head slightly to one side, pushing his heavy eyelids open with effort, blinking to bring his vision into focus. The room he was in was unfamiliar to him and softly lit by candles, placed strategically around the room to chase away the worst of the gloom. That was his first clue, his muddled brain recognizing that it must be nighttime. As his eyes lazily scanned the rest of the room, he confirmed what his other senses had already told him – he was alone.

 

With effort, he managed to roll to his side, gasping as the action pulled on his ribs and his hand moved instinctively to brace his side, bringing his attention to the linen that was wound around his torso, snugly but not uncomfortably so, supporting his sore flank. It raised another question in his mind, but one that he could not currently consider, his need becoming more urgent as he shifted positions. He managed to swing his legs over the side of the bed, planting his feet on the cool floor, sending a shiver up his spine. He paused a moment to adjust before pushing himself to stand, the room swaying alarmingly with the new elevation. When his vision had settled, he looked around for the chamber pot, shuffling over to it to take care of his needs when he’d found it.

 

When he’d finished, he took another moment to survey the room, the space still providing no clues as to his location. He’d obviously received medical care at some point but his memories were disjointed and he couldn’t recall when or from whom. Spotting his clothes carefully folded across the back of a chair, he dressed carefully, breathing a sigh of relief when he spotted his weapons belt, which he added securely around his hips. With a last glance around, he confirmed that he had all of his possessions and headed for the door, opening it slowly to look outside before stepping fully out of the room.

 

He found himself on a walkway and headed toward an open area up ahead, hearing the low sound of voices the further he went. Down below was a large open courtyard with several men eating and engaged in conversation, but the group that got his attention sat off to one side at a table by themselves. He was at the Musketeers’ garrison but why or how he’d come to be there was a complete mystery, and d’Artagnan placed a hand to his temple as the throbbing in his head escalated with the number of holes in his memory. Shakily, he made his way down the stairs, leaning on the banister as the steps occasionally swam out of focus. By the time he’d reached the bottom, a sheen of sweat covered his brow and he was surprised at how out of breath he felt.

 

Steeling himself, he began to move toward the three Musketeers, determined to find out what had happened and then remove himself as quickly as possible. Porthos spotted him as he was approaching, offering one of his broad, welcoming grins and d’Artagnan did his best to muster one in return, not entirely certain he’d succeeded as the Musketeer’s smile began to falter. Before he could think any more about it, Aramis was turning to see what had drawn Porthos’ attention and at the Spaniard’s movement, Athos followed; within seconds, d’Artagnan found himself under both men’s careful scrutiny.

 

Suddenly feeling awkward and unsure of what to say, the Gascon remained silent, allowing Aramis the opportunity to jump in. “Finally up, are you? How are you feeling? More like yourself than the previous times, I hope?”

 

d’Artagnan’s brain was struggling to keep up with the rapidly-fired questions and finally managed to utter a single response that he hoped would satisfy the man, “I’m fine.”

 

Porthos couldn’t contain his snort of derision, heavily colored with humour at the young man’s assessment of his health. Aramis’ eyes narrowed at the Gascon’s unsatisfactory reply but it was Athos who interjected with statement of his own, “Then you’ll satisfy our curiosity and explain how you came to be tied up and unconscious, accused of stealing horses by the stable owner.”

 

The question hung in the air between them for several long seconds as d’Artagnan racked his brain to come up with an answer to the man’s question. After declining Aramis’ offer for a place to spend the night, he’d ended up at the stable and laid down in one of the empty stalls. As it had many times in the past, the familiar sounds and smells of the horses had lulled him into a deep sleep and he’d been caught unaware when the owner had arrived that morning. With no opportunity to explain, the man had immediately accused him of being a thief and, although he’d fought, someone had struck him over the head. That, unfortunately, was where his memory deserted him, and no amount of concentration was able to reveal the missing pieces.

 

Deciding on brevity, d’Artagnan replied, “The man was simply concerned about the fact that I ended up sleeping in one of the stalls. I’m certain things could have been sorted out, had he given me an opportunity to explain.” When the three stayed silent, he pressed on, wanting some answers of his own. “Um, what am I doing here?”

 

Despite the fact that all of the men understood what the boy was asking, Aramis chose to respond to the question literally, wanting to confirm his suspicions that the young man was far from being fine as he’d claimed. “Why, you’re having a conversation with us, of course. Are you certain that you’re feeling well?”

 

Porthos rolled his eyes at his friend’s antics but didn’t intervene, watching as the young man’s face flushed at the comment. Deciding to take sympathy on the Gascon now that his hunch had been confirmed, Aramis softened his expression, “What do you remember of the day’s events?”

 

d’Artagnan did his best not to squirm uncomfortably under the men’s gazes, but it was difficult to do in the presence of three such strong personalities. Deciding he had nothing to lose, he opted for the truth as he confessed, “Nothing, really, after someone hit me on the head.”

 

Aramis nodded happily at the young man’s honesty. “You were fortunate that the three of us were the ones who responded to the stable owner’s claims against you. When we found you tied up, we brought you back here and tended your wounds. You’ve been awake a few times throughout the day but this is the first time you’ve been coherent enough for conversation.”

 

d’Artagnan wasn’t sure how he felt about the information he’d just heard, embarrassed that he’d been so unaware that he had no memory of being brought back to the garrison, while at the same time grateful for the kindness they’d extended. Settling on the latter emotion, he said, “Thank you for taking care of my injuries. Does this mean I am under arrest or am I free to go?” He hesitated in asking the question but needed to know what his future held, praying that these men wouldn’t have cared for him only to sentence him as a thief.

 

“We are hardly in the habit of bringing criminals back to the garrison and leaving them unguarded,” Athos replied dryly.

 

d’Artagnan was flustered by the response and he shifted again in discomfort, while Aramis threw his friend a dirty look. “Well, thank you then,” the Gascon managed to mumble before turning away to head out through the gates.

 

As the boy walked away, Porthos and Aramis shared amused looks while Athos remained unperturbed, willing to allow the young man to leave. With a sigh, Porthos called out, stopping d’Artagnan’s steps, “d’Artagnan, what about your horse?”

 

The Gascon’s expression was suitably confused at the question, “What about her? Did the stable owner do something?” The tone was infused with panic and the larger man silently berated himself for inadvertently worrying the boy.

 

“No, she’s fine. I brought her back and made sure she was settled into our stable this morning,” he explained.

 

“Oh,” d’Artagnan replied, unsure of why his horse was there. “Thank you.” He turned in a slow circle, trying to locate the building among the others until Athos helpfully pointed it out.

 

With a nod of thanks, the young man began moving toward the stable, intending to get his horse and go but this time it was Aramis who stopped him. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be riding with those ribs.” Self-consciously, the Gascon lifted a hand to his sore side. “It would be best if you rested for at least the next few days and gave yourself time for those bruises to start healing.”

 

With a rueful smile, d’Artagnan nodded, “I will; thank you.”

 

Seeing the Gascon’s intention to continue toward the stables, Porthos heaved himself up from the table to collect the boy, putting an arm around the young man’s shoulders and then walking him back to the table, pushing him down to take the seat next to him. “Here,” he said, pushing a plate of food in d’Artagnan’s direction, “have something to eat and then you can head back to bed.”

 

At the boy’s look of concern, Aramis concluded that they’d toyed with him enough with their intentionally vague statements and he interjected, “You’ll be staying at the garrison until you’re well enough to travel or until you find appropriate lodgings elsewhere. It’s the least we can do after your assistance clearing Athos’ name.” He shifted his gaze to the older man as he added, “The Captain agrees.”

 

Athos gave an imperceptible inclination of his head in acknowledgement of the man’s words, familiar enough with Aramis that he did not doubt that the medic had already petitioned the Captain on the young man’s behalf and secured permission to have him stay at the garrison while he healed.

 

d’Artagnan looked from one man to the next, trying to read their expressions, but the men revealed nothing. Grateful for their offer, but needing to understand before he could accept, he asked, “But, why?”

 

Now it was Aramis’ turn to look confused as he said, “I just explained; because you helped save Athos from the firing squad.”

 

The Gascon began to shake his head, stopping almost at once when the action aggravated his headache, “I would have done that regardless to find my father’s killer. You owe me nothing, so why are you doing this?”

 

Porthos could see the consternation on Aramis’ face and was confident Athos would stay quiet, the older man still unhappy with the fact that they’d brought the young man back with them. “Because you need help and we’re in a position to provide it.” When d’Artagnan looked ready to argue further, the larger man raised a hand to stop him from speaking and added, “Just accept it and leave it at that, lad.”

 

The look of sincerity on Porthos’ face alleviated any lingering doubts in d’Artagnan’s mind and he gave a nod, accompanied by a shy smile. “Good,” Porthos grinned broadly. “Now eat, you’re nothin’ but skin and bones.”

 

The comment pulled a laugh from Aramis and the Gascon grinned as he snagged a piece of cheese from the plate. It would be the first of many meals the four would share together, d’Artagnan staying at the garrison for four full days before the men subtly let it drop that Constance was seeking a boarder and could be flexible, for a short time at least, about when her husband collected the rent. It was on the morning of his fifth day that d’Artagnan was getting ready to move to his new room, still uncertain about what he would do next, but far more comfortable in the Musketeers’ company, when the Captain appeared and called down to him. The others had already departed for the palace and the Gascon was surprised to hear Treville’s voice above him, “d’Artagnan, do you have a moment? I’d like to have a word before you go.”

 

The Captain explained his need for a man who would not be recognized as a Musketeer to get close to the prisoner, Vadim, and find out what he’d done with a vast quantity of gun powder. d’Artagnan was under no obligation to agree and Treville could not provide any assurances of his safety, but the successful completion of the mission would see the King and Queen safe and his country would be in his debt.

 

As soon as the Captain outlined his proposal, d’Artagnan found himself nodding in agreement, the request giving him a thrill of anticipation that he hadn’t experienced in quite some time. His time in Paris since Gaudet’s death had been routine and normal, a condition that he should have savoured but which instead had him longing for the excitement he’d experienced when he’d accompanied Aramis and Porthos through the French countryside. Treville thanked him for his willingness to undertake the task, and ordered him to return to the garrison that evening so they could work out a plan for his arrest with the three inseparables. The thought had him feeling lighter than he had in days and there was an added spring in his step that hadn’t been there since before Paris. 

* * *

“No, absolutely not, I forbid it,” Athos’ harsh words rolled over the Gascon, his temper flaring at the older man’s resistance. “This is Musketeer business and you should not be involved.”

 

They stood in Treville's office, the inseparables loosely gathered on one side of the room while d’Artagnan stood closest to the door, the Captain behind his desk, leaning over it with his weight on his arms. Aramis and Porthos were silent, weighing the information that had just been shared with them and waiting to hear the response to Athos’ concerns. It was Treville who waded into the fray with his lieutenant, reasoning with him to see the logic behind his request. “It has to be someone Vadim doesn’t know. While this mission isn’t without its risks, the danger to the King and Queen is greater and if d’Artagnan can ferret out any information that will keep their Majesties safe, then it will be worth it.”

 

Athos fumed in silence, recognizing that the Captain had every right to overrule his concerns, but unable to help the fact that something about the situation didn’t sit well with him. He struggled to understand why he’d reacted so strongly; after all, he’d only become acquainted with the boy the week prior. What was it about the young man that had his hackles rising protectively?

 

His thoughts were interrupted by the Captain’s sigh as he did his best to rein in his irritation and stated, “Look, I understand the danger associated with this assignment as well as anyone, but unless you can provide me with a good reason not to proceed, then I’d ask you to turn your attention to a plausible reason that will place d’Artagnan in the Chatelet.”

 

The men's gazes all drifted to Athos who refused to meet anyone's eyes, and he steadfastly clamped his jaw closed against the arguments that threatened to break free. His rational mind warned him that he was being unreasonable, the Captain’s plan sound and something he might have suggested himself in similar circumstances. To be fair, they’d all been deployed, together or apart, on missions that required subterfuge and the adoption of other identities, and the tactic was a sound one. Yet, there was something about the current situation that rankled him, causing uneasiness to stir in his belly and raise significant doubts about the plan’s ability to succeed.

 

He allowed his eyes to drift to the Gascon, the young man’s attention fully on the men around him, now discussing the various ways in which he might get himself thrown into the Chatelet. It was a fine balancing act, Athos knew, selecting a crime that was severe enough to require punishment yet not so serious that it would result in immediate execution. Plus, the crime needed to fit the young man’s personality since there were several things that no one would believe the Gascon capable of, no matter the evidence presented.

 

Athos’ attention was drawn back to the scene playing out before him, the Captain’s nod of appreciation signalling that they were nearing the end of the discussion. “That could work,” Treville was saying, agreeably. The man’s attention turned to the other Musketeers as he asked, “Has he the skill to stay alive long enough to pull it off?” The Captain knew the question would annoy the young man, but their plan hinged on him surviving long enough to reach prison.

 

For his part, d’Artagnan merely stiffened, waiting to hear what the others would say about his skills. Porthos was the first to answer, relying upon what he’d observed first at the garrison and later in the attack on Gaudet’s forces. “He’s got skill with a blade and, if Gaudet’s any indication, he should be able to hold his own against any of the Red Guards.”

 

Aramis was nodding as well, turning his focus to Athos as he questioned, “Athos, you’ve fought the boy. Does he have what it takes to defeat a Red Guard?”

 

Athos found himself uncomfortably at the centre of everyone’s attention as he answered neutrally, “He made a fair opponent.” He glanced at d’Artagnan, noting the boy’s rapt attention as he admitted, “I believe he has a chance of succeeding.” He didn’t miss the matching smiles on Aramis’ and Porthos’ faces but chose not to acknowledge them, fixing his eyes firmly on the Captain and for the man to announce his decision.

 

Treville gave a short nod, “Then it’s decided.” Turning to the Gascon he said, “Knowledge of this plan cannot go beyond these walls. Get some rest and then find someone to challenge. I’m certain these three can help you in that respect if you’re unable to find a suitable opponent.” Aramis and Porthos smiled cheekily but didn’t protest against the man’s words. “I’ll expect to receive news of your arrest tomorrow.” With that he sat down, a clear sign to the others of their dismissal.

 

d’Artagnan led the way out, taking several steps away from the door before stopping to speak with the others. His eyes danced skittishly over Aramis and Porthos, landing on the older man as he searched for the right words to express how he was feeling. Sensing the Gascon’s need to speak with Athos, the other two clapped his back as they passed, continuing on to descend into the courtyard. Athos raised his eyebrow in question, wondering why the boy would want to talk to him. “I _can_ do this, Athos. I understand what’s at stake and would never have agreed if I didn’t think I could succeed.”

 

Athos’ brow furrowed at the young man’s desire to convince him, realizing in that moment that it was not a lack of confidence in the boy’s abilities that had him concerned; rather, it was worry that something might happen to d’Artagnan. The comprehension that he was troubled for the young man’s safety deepened his frown and had d’Artagnan hurrying to try to convince him. “I know I’m not as skilled as the Musketeers, but I’m certain that few are when they join the regiment as recruits.”

 

Athos’ eyebrows danced again and he forced himself to adopt a more neutral expression as he asked, “You wish to become a recruit?”

 

The question caught the Gascon off guard, not having actually considered joining the Musketeers, but not opposed to the idea now that it had been verbalized. Feeling unbalanced at the direction the conversation had taken and uncertain about Athos’ thoughts about him potentially wanting to join the Musketeers’ ranks, he went on the defensive, “Would that be a problem?”

 

Athos kept his face free of emotion as he replied, letting d’Artagnan know that it mattered little to him, “Only if your skills are insufficient and you manage to get yourself killed.” Without giving the boy a chance to respond, he moved around him to the stairs and made his way down quickly, nodding at his two friends who waited expectantly, and passing by them to exit through the garrison gates.

 

As the older man walked by, Porthos looked up to where d’Artagnan still stood, correctly reading the defeat in the young man’s posture as he pointed out to Aramis, “Like oil and water, they are. What do you think they were talkin’ about?”

 

Aramis hummed in agreement as he hazarded a guess, “d’Artagnan was probably trying to convince Athos that he’s capable while Athos…” he trailed off, not knowing why the older man had been acting so oddly.

 

“And Athos, is Athos,” Porthos finished for him, gaining a nod of agreement from his friend.

* * *

_ Present Day: _

 

The bandit who’d been tormenting him had finally left him alone, one of the others coming to collect the man and giving d’Artagnan a much needed respite from the beating he’d been enduring. His body ached fiercely and it was difficult to distinguish one hurt from another, a situation further compounded by the difficulties he was having thinking clearly, a realization that led him to conclude that he’d suffered sufficient blows to the head to cause a concussion. He’d allowed his mind to drift, retreating to memories of happier times and reflecting on the months that had led him to be in this place. Becoming a Musketeer had never crossed his mind, despite his innate ability with a sword and his father’s indulgence of that talent. Even when he’d crossed paths with the Musketeers, his only thoughts had been of revenge and later survival as he faced an uncertain future and tried to decide whether or not to return to Gascony.

 

The idea of becoming a recruit had been inadvertently planted by Athos, the one man who wanted more than anyone a different future for the young Gascon. When d’Artagnan had agreed to ingratiate himself to Vadim, the older man had been the staunchest opponent of their plans and yet it was Athos’ approval that he’d needed the most. The realization had surprised him and yet, given the bond between them now, made perfect sense in hindsight. It was why he could be so confident that his friends had not abandoned him and that it was simply a matter of time before rescue arrived.

 

With a careful sigh, the action pulling at his sore ribs, d’Artagnan resolved himself to doing whatever it took to survive until his friends arrived. Allowing his eyes to drift close once more, his mind wandered back to the tunnels following his fight with Vadim.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he drifted off to sleep, Aramis’ words echoed in his mind, suggesting that he might have a future away from his Gascon farm. “It’s what brothers do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I continue to be overwhelmed and grateful for the response to this story. Thank you to everyone who's been following along.

_ Months earlier: _

 

d’Artagnan shook his head in disbelief, still somewhat shocked at the realization that he’d survived Vadim’s plan and had even managed to best the man in battle, wounding him badly before he’d been able to run off. Preparing to chase after the man, the Gascon stopped in his tracks at the appearance of the Musketeers, Athos casting an appraising eye over him as he remarked, “So, you’re not dead.”

 

He wasn’t sure how to take the offhand comment and decided to brush it aside, more pressing matters needing their attention at the moment as he explained his recent fight with Vadim, prompting them all to chase after the man. d’Artagnan was the first to approach the criminal, needing to know why the man had gone along with his subterfuge instead of killing him outright. Vadim confessed that he should have killed him and the admission sent a shiver through the Gascon’s body as he realized just how close he’d come to dying. With Vadim’s final breath there was little more to be done other than making arrangements for the man’s body, returning the stolen items to the treasury, reporting everything to Treville and ensuring d’Artagnan’s name was cleared of any wrongdoing.

 

As expected, Athos took it upon himself to handle the latter tasks, while Aramis and Porthos volunteered to deal with the others. It left d’Artagnan oddly bereft of purpose and he slowly followed the others back through the tunnels and out to the street.

 

“Will you be alright to get yourself back?” Aramis asked, his mind still somewhat preoccupied with his own near-miss with death, and desperate to finish their duties so he could examine his friends, the sight of their bodies after the explosion shaking him more than he wanted to admit.

 

d’Artagnan gave a nod as he squinted against the sunlight, having been in the darkness for such a long time. Porthos clapped him gently on the shoulder as he passed by, speaking a low, “Good job, lad,” as he passed. The comment brought a smile to the Gascon’s lips even though he was far from certain he’d done anything right. The mission had not turned out even close to expected, the many mistakes he’d made culminating with the supreme embarrassment of hearing that Vadim had known he was a spy all along. It was a harsh lesson to learn, accompanied by the realization that he’d been overconfident in his assessment of his abilities, and he could almost hear his father’s voice in his head reminding him of that fact as he’d done many times before.

 

That, above everything else, was what made him cringe at the thought of presenting himself to Treville. The idea of becoming a recruit had captured his imagination and he’d hoped to make his request to the Captain at the end of his successful mission, but it seemed that success would be a wild overstatement given what had actually transpired. Instead of preventing Vadim’s attack and saving the King and Queen, the royal couple had been protected through a combination of the Musketeers’ skills and luck, Vadim having double-crossed his own men in order to distract everyone from his real plans. On top of that, the gunpowder had still exploded, causing a great deal of damage to the tunnels and enabling the criminal to steal the Queen’s jewels.

 

The panic of waking up tied to the barrels of gunpowder returned to d’Artagnan in vivid clarity as he began the walk back to the Bonacieux house, the other three having gone in different directions, leaving only Athos on the same street but many feet ahead of him. He reached a hand to his head, feeling the uncomfortable sensation of dried blood in his hair and along the side of his face, and a fresher, oozing cut at the back of his head. The combination of the two made his skull throb in time to his heart and he closed his eyes further against the pain.

 

By the time that the Bonacieux residence finally came into view, he was nearly swaying with exhaustion, his only goal to make it back to his room and fall into bed, confident that Athos’ report would satisfy the Captain long enough to allow him a short rest. As he made his way through the quiet house, he was pleased to find it empty, Constance likely out at the market, meaning that he could avoid her awkward questions about his current grubby condition. He barely managed to pull his boots off before falling into bed, savouring the feel of the cool sheets against his cheek as he gave up his hold on consciousness and fell asleep.

* * *

The three men reconvened in the garrison courtyard almost two hours after parting. Athos’ report had satisfied the Captain and when the man had pressed for d’Artagnan’s location, his lieutenant had demurred and stated simply that the boy would show up eventually. Treville had raised a questioning eyebrow but was willing to allow them all some leeway since the King was happy that Vadim had failed and he’d managed to save face with his subjects by proceeding with his Easter plans.

 

Athos was sitting at their table when Porthos and Aramis arrived, the two men clearly in good spirits as they laughed at a shared joke. As they joined the older man, Athos poured them each a glass of wine, knowing that they’d be parched from the day’s events and would want to wash away the dust from the tunnels. With a look, he posed his unspoken question which Porthos answered, “Everything’s taken care of. Vadim’s at the morgue and everything he stole is back safely under lock and key.”

 

Athos gave a nod in thanks and took a sip of wine as Aramis spoke, “I want to check you both over after that explosion.” He rolled his eyes at the look Athos and Porthos were sharing and continued, “I don’t care to hear that you’re fine. You will let me confirm it unless you’d like the Captain to know exactly how close we all were when things started crashing down around our heads.” It was an unfair threat but they all knew Treville’s stance on reporting injuries, and the man would not be happy if he found out the truth, especially since Aramis was certain that Athos had _forgotten_ to mention it in his report.

 

“Very well,” Athos agreed, knowing that they had little choice. “My apartments?”

 

Athos rented space away from the garrison, as many of them did, and his rooms were arguably the largest, though also the most sparsely furnished among them. Aramis winced at the memory of his friend’s meagrely furnished space and he gave a shake of his head, “No, I think mine this time.”

 

Porthos gave a nod of agreement and the three rose to depart. “Where’s d’Artagnan?” the large man asked as they headed for the garrison gates.

 

Both men turned their attention to Athos, waiting for a reply, but he merely shrugged. “Probably went home to clean up.”

 

Aramis’ expression turned to concern, remembering the blood that they’d found, “Is he alright?” Athos gave him a confused look in return that had the medic sighing in exasperation. “The blood we found. Was he hurt?”

 

Athos realized that with the need to take care of everything afterwards, none of them had checked on the boy, assuming he was fine since he’d still been standing and had left the tunnels under his own power. Athos’ silence gave Aramis his answer and Porthos cursed lowly under his breath at the fact that they’d all been too preoccupied to evaluate the young man’s condition. “Maybe we should stop by to check on ‘im?”

 

Athos looked uncomfortable at the suggestion but it was clear that Aramis approved, already nodding in agreement. Finding himself overruled by his brothers’ wishes once more, the older man gave a short nod and the three changed direction toward their new objective.

 

Constance opened the door at Athos’ knock, gracing him with a full smile tinged with surprise at seeing him there. “Madame,” Athos tipped his hat politely, “we’ve come to speak with d’Artagnan.”

 

Constance’s face shadowed as she said, “d’Artagnan? I didn’t realize he was back.” As she spoke she stepped back from the doorway, allowing the men to enter and leading them through to the kitchen. “Are you sure he’s here?”

 

The men exchanged concerned gazes as Aramis smoothly stepped forward to say, “Perhaps he was simply weary and retired to his room without you knowing?”

 

Constance seemed uncertain about the suggestion but gave a slight nod, leading them to the hallway that led to the Gascon’s room. “Thank you,” Porthos said with a small bow, “we can find our way from here.” With a somewhat bewildered look on her face she turned and let them go the rest of the way by themselves.

 

Aramis was standing outside the door and he rapped his knuckles solidly against the wood, calling out as his did so, “d’Artagnan, it’s Aramis, Porthos and Athos. May we come in?” He waited for several seconds, listening intently for any sound but he heard nothing. Porthos shrugged as if to say _go ahead and open it_ and Aramis slowly twisted the doorknob, pushing against it as it released.

 

Taking a step inside, he could see the Gascon lying across his bed, feet dangling off the side as he’d fallen almost diagonally across the mattress. Another step revealed the dirtiness of the young man’s clothes, indicating that he hadn’t washed or changed before going to sleep. The sight was beginning to worry the medic and he walked forward quickly now, the other two following in his wake. Sitting down near the head of the bed, Aramis placed a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, shaking him gently, “d’Artagnan, can you wake up for me? You’ll be far more comfortable if we get you out of these dirty clothes.”

 

A low moan greeted the medic’s efforts as the Gascon’s eyes fluttered open, finding himself face to face with the Spaniard. “What d’ya want?” he slurred at the man, heavy lids already threatening to close.

 

Aramis pressed, not wanting to lose the bit of ground he'd gained, "Sit up and let me help you get changed.” As he spoke, he was already tugging at the young man’s shoulder, encouraging him to shift to an upright position.

 

With a groan of displeasure, d’Artagnan rolled onto his side and squinted at the marksman, eyes moving seconds later to land on the other two men who were both staring at him in concern. “Why are you here?” he asked, pushing up with one arm until he was mostly vertical.

 

The question he’d asked had no good answer and none of the men wanted to admit that it was partly out of guilt that they’d found themselves in d’Artagnan’s room, trying to assuage their worry after letting the young man leave earlier on his own. Taking safety in duty, Athos cleared his throat as he replied, “The Captain will need your account of events.”

 

Jumping on the opening, Aramis added, “You’ll need to clean up a bit before you present yourself. Do you need any help?”

 

d’Artagnan threw the man a disbelieving look at the suggestion that he needed assistance to get changed. With a shake of his head he sighed wearily and pulled himself to his feet, only to sway as the throbbing in his skull escalated uncomfortably. Without thought, his hand flew to his temple, holding his fragile head as if it would fly apart otherwise, closing his eyes against the dizziness that accompanied the pain. Porthos was at his side instantly, steadying him from one side while Aramis did the same from the other and, between them, they pushed the Gascon back down to sit on his bed.

 

He sat there for several seconds as he waited for the ache to ease and then opened his eyes to find Aramis watching him with concern. “I’m fine,” he stated, the words spilling out automatically.

 

Athos was beginning to grow annoyed with d’Artagnan’s persistent claims about his wellbeing and his irritation was clear in his tone as he suggested, “At least let Aramis clean the blood off your face before you speak with the Captain.”

 

d’Artagnan’s fingers rose to touch the trail of red at this temple as he was reminded of the dry, itchy feeling from before, but Porthos caught his hand before it could land. “That’s probably not a good idea. Why don’t you let Aramis have a look before you start pokin’ at it?”

 

Realizing that he seemed to be the centre of attention, d’Artagnan gave a small nod, aborting the motion almost as soon as it had begun when the pain in his head threatened to bring tears to his eyes. Aramis was already leaning in closely to examine the cut, speaking to the others as he did so, “I’ll need some clean cloths and warm water, and see if Madame Bonacieux has a needle and thread I can borrow.” He was completely absorbed in his examination of the young man but his certainty in his friends was absolute and he trusted that they would gather the necessary items.

 

Porthos was the first to return, carrying several clean rags and a pitcher of water which Aramis took advantage of right away in order to wipe away the blood that had collected. “This will need a few stitches,” he commented as the cut was properly revealed. Without warning, his hand moved to the back of the Gascon’s head in search of additional wounds and d’Artagnan gave a small yelp as Aramis’ hand landed on another sore spot. The medic parted the young man’s hair as he peered at the second bloody patch, cleaning it as well before pinning the boy with an uncompromising glare. “How did that happen?”

 

d’Artagnan shrugged as he racked his brain, trying to recall how he’d suffered a second head wound. The only thing that made sense to his tired mind was that it had been shrapnel from the blast and, without considering the effect his words might have, he explained, “I think it might have been from the explosion. I wasn’t as far away as I’d hoped when it went off.”

 

“Exactly how close were you?” a voice said from the doorway, Athos returning just in time to hear the Gascon’s last words.

 

d’Artagnan looked over at him as he answered, “Not sure, but I only had a few seconds to get away.” He looked sheepish as he said, “I got thrown pretty far when it exploded.”

 

Porthos threw a glance in Athos’ direction, noting the stiffness of the man’s shoulders and recognizing the older man’s readiness to berate the young man. Interceding, he hurriedly asked, “How far exactly were you thrown?”

 

d’Artagnan seemed to be getting bored with their line of questioning and shrugged again, considering that the information had little bearing on his ability to report to Treville. “Look, can you just get on with it so I can speak with the Captain. I didn’t get much sleep while I was with Vadim and I’m really tired.”

 

Athos was still tense and seemed to be barely holding his tongue, and this time it was Aramis who interjected, “Athos, I’ll take those from you now. Will you see if there’s any wine or brandy?” Deftly plucking the needle and thread from the older man’s hands, he turned his focus back to d’Artagnan, confident that Athos would do as he’d asked and give the man a much needed opportunity to calm down. Porthos rose and trailed after his friend, Aramis throwing him a look of gratitude, knowing that the large man would accomplish anything that the distraction could not.

 

As Aramis cleaned the second cut at the back of d’Artagnan’s head, he spoke softly, “You know, a Musketeer has a responsibility to advise others of his injuries. Otherwise, he puts everyone else at risk.”

 

d’Artagnan bristled at the suggestion that he’d intentionally hidden anything from them and countered, “Then I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not a Musketeer.”

 

Despite the insolence of the young man’s words, Aramis continued to work, pausing only to give Porthos a nod of thanks when the man returned with a bottle of wine. Refusing to rise to the bait he questioned, “For whom?”

 

The odd question caught the Gascon off guard, and the medic took advantage, pressing a cloth doused in wine against one of the wounds, causing the young man to hiss before he composed himself enough to ask, “What?”

 

Aramis moved the threaded needle into place and placed the first stitch, noting that d’Artagnan stayed still and only gave a minor flinch at the sensation. “I mean, for whom is it a good thing that you’re not a Musketeer?”

 

d’Artagnan was uncertain how to respond and his mouth opened for a moment before falling closed, having no idea what to say. Aramis finished placing the first set of stitches, tying them off neatly before moving to the second wound. He continued to sew as he talked, “The regiment attracts all sorts of men. Some are nobles, sent there to buy their commissions because they will never inherit their family’s title and lands. Others are career soldiers who have no other skills. Some search for glory, others for purpose, but there is one thing that bands us all together.” He fell quiet as he tied off the second set of stitches, leaning back and wiping the bloody needle clean.

 

It was apparent that he had d’Artagnan’s attention but he stayed silent, waiting to see if the boy would speak. Seconds later, he did, and to Aramis’ satisfaction, the tone was no longer belligerent but curious instead. “What bands you all together?”

 

Aramis put the needle down on the small bedside table and raised his gaze to the Gascon as he replied, “That we are willing to live and die for our brothers-in-arms.”

 

The answer was clearly not what d’Artagnan had expected and the medic took the opportunity to tug at the young man’s shirt, attempting to undress him. The action prompted the Gascon into movement as he jerked away in surprise. “You need to get out of these dirty clothes,” Aramis stated.

 

“I can do it myself,” d’Artagnan countered, pulling his shirt up and over his head, revealing his bruised torso. He looked up at the sound of the medic’s sharp inhale, following the man’s gaze and looking down at his chest. With a rueful grin he admitted, “I was a bit closer to the explosion than I liked.”

 

Aramis was nodding, his fingers now pressing against some of the bruising, confirming that there was nothing more serious hidden beneath the vivid colors. Sitting back he gave a nod, “I don’t think there’s anything more serious than bruises but I’m sure you’ll be sore for a few days.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded in agreement, having already guessed by the tenderness, even before Aramis had prodded at the sore spots. Satisfied that the Gascon had no other hidden injuries, Aramis handed him a wet cloth, indicating that he should use it to clean his hands and face. With that task accomplished, he chivvied d’Artagnan out of his breeches and into bed.

 

Closing the door behind him, he joined the others in the kitchen where Athos had managed to secure some of Bonacieux’s wine and Constance bustled around preparing dinner. “How is he?” she asked, stopping to wipe her hands on her apron.

 

Offering her a charming smile he assured her, “Fine. Other than the cuts on his head, there’s only bruising. He’ll be alright after some proper rest.”

 

She nodded in reply and turned back to her task, Aramis turning to his friends. “I need to go back to my rooms and collect a salve that will help with the bruising.” He paused, uncertain what the two men were thinking.

 

Porthos saved him from wondering by stating, “Go. We’ll wait here and keep an eye on the boy. Besides,” he grinned widely, “we’ve been invited to dinner.”

 

A quick look in Athos’ direction confirmed the man’s agreement to stay and share a meal, and Aramis smiled in relief at not having to explain his desire to watch over the young man.

 

It was several hours later when d’Artagnan finally awoke and stumbled from his room to find the Musketeers chatting amiably over brandy with Constance. He looked at the tableau in confusion as he asked, “What are you still doing here?”

 

With mock indignation, Constance stated, “I invited them for dinner.”

 

At d’Artagnan’s continued look of disbelief, Porthos answered, “We wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

 

The Gascon scrubbed a hand through his untidy hair, wincing for a moment when he accidently touched one of the cuts, “But, why? Surely you have better things to do.”

 

Aramis gave him a soft smile as he said, “It’s what brothers do.” 

* * *

Later that night, as d’Artagnan lay in bed, his belly full of Constance’s good cooking and a fair amount of her husband’s wine, he reflected on the day’s events. He’d been unhappy with how things had turned out with Vadim and wanted nothing more than to put the failed mission behind him, crawling into bed and losing himself in the bliss of sleep. Finding the Musketeers in his room had been a shock, and he’d truly had no idea why they were there.

 

The diligence that Aramis had shown him in tending his wounds had been unexpected; the last hands he remembered touching him with such care were his father’s and it was yet another regret he had, as he’d thought he would never experience such a sensation again. The medic had further surprised him by speaking openly about the brotherhood of the Musketeers and he’d felt another pang of longing at the idea of experiencing such camaraderie. The surprises had continued when he’d discovered that the men had stayed. Granted, Constance’s superb cooking might have swayed their decision, but the fact remained that they were there and had only departed after he’d eaten a hearty meal and they’d helped to explain to Monsieur Bonacieux the circumstances surrounding his arrest.

 

As he drifted off to sleep, Aramis’ words echoed in his mind, suggesting that he might have a future away from his Gascon farm. _“It’s what brothers do.”_


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos pulled up on his reins and pinned the Gascon with a hard stare, reiterating his earlier demand, “Tell the others nothing of what I told you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad folks enjoyed the small glimpse into the famous brotherhood in the last chapter. Another look at present day events coming up in this next installment - enjoy!

_ Present Day: _

 

Growing up, d’Artagnan had spent time with two boys from a nearby farm. Their names were Alric and Mattias and the two were barely a year apart in age. While the older one, Mattias, often griped about his younger brother following him around, it was clear that the boy didn’t really mind. This proved especially true when anyone tried to bully the younger child, and the older boy would come charging to protect him, typically leaving the aggressor with a bloodied nose.

 

d’Artagnan had become acquainted with the two during a fair that was held in the village one summer, and despite the fact that the Gascon was a couple years older than both boys, they formed a deep friendship that lasted well into their teens. When he spent time with the two brothers, d’Artagnan would often wonder what it would have been like if he’d had a brother as well, imagining how well he would have protected his sibling and the things he would have taught the boy.

 

When he’d been younger, he recalled asking his mother for a sibling, the woman smiling indulgently at him as she explained that it was God’s choice, and it would happen if He willed it. Her answer had him praying each night for the brother he so desperately desired, until illness struck his mother and his prayers turned into pleas for her recovery. Despite the fact that she’d been sick for a while before she passed, they’d been hopeful that she was getting better, and the morning the elder d’Artagnan discovered his wife dead shocked them both.

 

He remembered looking into his father’s eyes and seeing the sorrow that threatened to overwhelm the man, and he swallowed his own sadness and grief over a sibling who would never be, resigning himself to the fact that at least he had his two friends who, although not related by blood, were as close as any family could be. The bond between the three boys grew despite the added responsibilities each took on at their respective farms, d’Artagnan’s father especially relying upon him more and more as he grew into a strong young man.

 

d’Artagnan still remembered the excitement that shone in the boys’ eyes as they shared their news – they were travelling with their father to Orleans to visit an uncle. Their father had thrilled them with exciting stories of the city and the two promised they would relate all their tales of adventure upon their return. That was the last time the Gascon saw the two, receiving news weeks later that they’d been attacked by bandits and killed on the road, never even reaching their destination. Their mother had been devastated, left alone after the death of her immediate family, and d’Artagnan had recognized the look of desolation in her eyes the day he’d stood solemnly with his father at the family’s funeral.

 

From that point forward, he’d given up his dream of ever having brothers, knowing that it would only ever be himself and his father and accepting that reality, if not entirely happy with it. He knew that he’d find himself alone in the world once his father passed, but the man was relatively young and in good health, and d’Artagnan was confident they’d have many more years together, growing into the future in which the Gascon envisioned himself to one day have a wife and children of his own. Fate, of course, had its own ideas and the universe cruelly ripped his last remaining family member from him on a gray and soggy afternoon outside of Paris.

 

As unkind as his father’s untimely death had been, fate chose to rebalance the scales, offering him three brothers who were closer to him than even his two childhood friends. They’d come into his life unexpectedly and, had he been searching, he never would have picked three men so different from him and from one another. One, a hopeless romantic who loved with all his heart and cared so deeply that he almost physically ached when one of them was hurt. Another, whose physical strength was outmatched only by the strength of his heart, the loyalty and devotion he gave to those he called _brother_ inspiring the same in return. And the third, a quiet, serious man who had been harshly treated by life and yet still offered kindness, compassion and respect to those around him. These were his brothers and he knew that their current separation would be agonizing, possibly worse for them that it was for him.

 

He recognized from experience that the one who’d been captured suffered the greater physical pain, but the ones searching suffered through their own special kind of hell. The sleepless nights spent worrying and wondering if one’s brother is still alive; the constant knot in one’s stomach, making food taste like sawdust; the unyielding need to search day and night until the body is ready to collapse; and the raw fear that colors every moment until they are reunited, which was worse than any physical ills they might endure. The thought brought tears to d’Artagnan’s eyes, not for his circumstances, but for his brothers’. Despite the fact that his body still ached, he knew his brothers’ hearts ached for him just as fiercely and his situation was the easier of the two. He had absolute faith that the men would find him; the others simply had to have faith that he would still be alive when found and, as the time wore on, theirs would be the more daunting task. 

* * *

_ Months earlier: _

 

He’d been surprised when Treville had allowed him to accompany the three men to arrest Bonnaire, still being nothing more than a recruit, and even that status was sometimes in doubt, having simply continued to appear at the garrison to train with the others with no formal agreement having been reached. For their part, the inseparables, as he’d heard them called, were tolerant of his presence, Aramis and Porthos always with an easy smile for him when he arrived, the latter pushing food on him when it was close to mealtime, making some comment or another about his scrawny form. Athos was more subdued in his response, but he willingly gave of his expertise, sparring with him and offering corrections when he was matched with another, and d’Artagnan found his skills flourishing under the older man’s guidance.

 

Their mission had been interesting from the start, the appearance of the man’s wife and then others who were clearly after the merchant, keeping them on their guard continuously. When Porthos was injured, d’Artagnan found his heart clenching in fear, which turned shortly to anger as he observed the heated exchange between Aramis and Athos, the former accusing his friend of wanting to let Porthos die. Athos relinquished his stance immediately at the medic’s words and reluctantly admitted he knew of a place where they could go. Their journey to find sanctuary had been filled with awkward silences, punctuated by Bonnaire’s occasional attempts at conversation which ended when either Athos or d’Artagnan glared at him. Aramis was clearly distraught at Porthos’ condition and angry at Athos’ reaction, shocked that he’d almost had to bully the man into relenting given whose life was at stake.

 

Fortunately, they’d arrived in time to treat Porthos’ wound and he laid, recovering, on one of the lounges in the sitting room they’d taken over for their needs. Athos had wandered off once Aramis had finished his stitches and, while the medic hovered nearby as he waited for Porthos to awake, d’Artagnan had felt at loose ends, standing by and keeping watch over Bonnaire. Instead of lessening, the tension between Aramis and the older man seemed to worsen, culminating with Athos’ order to ride ahead while he attended to personal matters in town.

 

d’Artagnan had been torn at that point, disturbed by the conflict between the men, but even more worried by the haunted look in the older man’s eyes. He was reminded of his father’s expression on the morning of his mother’s death, and no matter how hard he tried to push away the image, it relentlessly stuck at the forefront of his thoughts, making him feel anxious and unsettled. When he finally made the decision to return for Athos, he knew he’d incurred Aramis’ scorn but could not find it in himself to care. While he’d grown friendly with the three men, he could not claim friendship and found that easing his mind and conscience were more important than what the others thought of him.

 

He was astonished to find Athos’ family home in flames, the man himself inside and barely able to stand. The Gascon wasted no time in hauling the Musketeer up and manhandling him outside, where the two sat on the grass and watched as the hungry fire consumed everything in its path. Unexpectedly, Athos began to speak, relating the tale of his wife, a woman he’d long thought dead, and how she’d appeared to him this night intent on revenge. The incredible thing was that Athos had wanted to die, believing that it was no less than he deserved for letting his brother down and then unsuccessfully punishing Thomas’ killer. d’Artagnan was shocked by the revelation but remained quiet, regardless of the fact that he was growing to respect this man, even more so now that he knew everything the Musketeer had endured in his past.

 

They’d sat there until morning, Athos gradually becoming more aware as the alcohol he’d consumed left his system, leaving him more quiet and morose than usual. When the house before them was nothing more than a pile of faintly glowing embers and ash, illuminated by the weak morning dawn, Athos pushed himself to his feet, pausing a moment to regain his equilibrium, and then strode directly for his horse, the Gascon hurrying to keep up with him. No words were spoken between them as the Musketeer mounted and nudged his horse into motion toward Paris, d’Artagnan following in his wake. They rode straight through, stopping only to periodically rest the horses, but conversation remained nonexistent until they approached the garrison gates, at which point Athos pulled up on his reins and pinned the Gascon with a hard stare, reiterating his earlier demand, “Tell the others nothing of what I told you.”

 

At d’Artagnan’s short nod of agreement, Athos pulled his gaze away and they were moving again, stopping only once they’d passed through the garrison entrance. The older man dismounted immediately, handing his horse off to the stable boy and then looking up at the young man, “Go home and rest. There’s no need for you to stay.” d’Artagnan hesitated for a moment, having assumed that the four of them would share a meal together, or at the very least, that they would need to report to the Captain. As he looked across the courtyard, he saw Aramis and Porthos approaching with serious expressions, and a nod from Aramis had him tilting his head at Athos in return as he turned his horse and left.

 

As the two friends neared, Athos turned and began to move away, halted by Porthos’ hand on his arm while they positioned themselves in front of the older man. Athos knew they were examining him and it would be difficult to miss the blood at his temple that he’d hastily wiped away or the overwhelming scent of smoke that permeated his clothes. “What happened?” Porthos asked without preamble.

 

“Nothing,” Athos said, intending to move past the two, but they simply closed ranks so he couldn’t pass.

 

“It doesn’t look like nothing,” Aramis remarked, his light tone belying his determination to find out what had transpired.

 

“As I explained, I had some personal matters to attend to,” Athos explained, curbing his desire to roll his eyes at the men.

 

Aramis and Porthos exchanged looks, both knowing that there was more that their friend hadn’t told them, but recognizing that it would be best to bide their time and ask again later. With a motion of his head toward the gates, Porthos queried, “Where’s d’Artagnan off to?”

 

“He was tired and is going home to rest,” Athos stated, not looking either of them in the eye. Another round of looks passed between the two friends and Athos took advantage of their momentary distraction to slip between them, stalking up the stairs to Treville’s office.

 

As the two stood in the courtyard below, the larger man commented, “There’s more going on than he’s told us.” Aramis’ eyes followed Athos’ form as he disappeared into the Captain’s office, humming in agreement with his friend’s words. 

* * *

d’Artagnan rode slowly through the Parisian streets on his way back to the Bonacieux home, being nearly at the house when he realized that he’d forgotten to dismount and leave his horse at the garrison stables. It had been a courtesy the Captain had extended to him in exchange for the free labour he provided, helping out with chores and accompanying the others on the occasional mission, in return for his training and the opportunity to board his horse there for free. He debated for a moment about returning, but his weariness protested against the decision, choosing instead to leave his mount at a nearby stable and incur the cost for the night.

 

As he wandered toward home, having left his horse behind him, he reflected on the details Athos had shared with him as well as the man’s odd behaviour at the garrison. It was possible that he was simply tired, as he himself was, and had allowed d’Artagnan to leave as an act of consideration; unfortunately, to the Gascon, it felt more like a dismissal. He argued with himself that Athos would not do such a thing and, even though the two were not close, the Musketeer’s admission the other night would have surely brought them closer rather than pushing them apart.

 

Of course, Athos was an intensely private man and d’Artagnan realized that he still knew very little about him, making it possible that the Musketeer regretted what he’d shared. The Gascon knew well the power of alcohol and shock, both of which could cause a man’s tongue to loosen in ways that were not otherwise possible. Resigning himself to the fact that he was unlikely to learn the reasons behind Athos’ actions, d’Artagnan promised himself that he would do his best to forget what he’d learned, allowing the older man to move past any feelings of discomfort that might stem from having shared his past.

* * *

The next morning found the three men eating breakfast in the garrison courtyard, Porthos’ loud guffaw of laughter bringing a wince to Athos’ face, signalling a night of too much wine and too little rest. The large man had the good grace to cringe at the older man’s reaction and offered a quiet apology, even as Athos offered a nod in return, pulling his hat down further to protect his eyes from the sun’s brightness. Moments later d’Artagnan walked through the gates, Aramis spotting the young man almost at once and waving him over to join them. At the Spaniard’s call, Athos’ eyes darted over quickly and his body followed, rising from the table and moving away with a few mumbled words that had Porthos and Aramis staring after him in confusion.

 

“Where’s ‘e going?” Porthos asked, popping another bite into his mouth.

 

“I have no idea,” Aramis admitted, staring after the older man’s retreating back.

 

Seconds later d’Artagnan had joined them and as he took a seat, Porthos automatically pushing food toward him, he asked, “Where’s Athos going?”

 

“That seems to be the question of the day,” Porthos muttered before affixing a smile to his face and shaking his head to indicate that he didn’t know.

 

A momentary flash of something passed across d'Artagnan's expression, only to be gone so quickly that Aramis thought he must have imagined it. Forcing himself to refocus his attention on the two men with him, he asked, “How was your evening, d’Artagnan? I trust you slept well?”

 

The Gascon startled for a second at the question and Aramis wondered again at what he was missing, both Athos and now the young man acting strangely. d’Artagnan recovered quickly and he answered, “Fine, and how was your night?”

 

Porthos clapped a hand against Aramis’ back as he laughed, “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

 

Aramis rolled his eyes but smiled good-naturedly as he explained, “While I would enjoy being able to claim I was in the company of the fairer sex last night, the truth is far sadder, I’m afraid, and I had to watch Porthos cheat at cards while Athos drank.” At his last words, the marksman observed the Gascon for any reaction, but d’Artagnan simply took another bite of his breakfast as he hummed in reply. In truth, Aramis’ words had surprised him and he’d felt a pang of hurt at the fact that he’d been excluded from their evening, but the Gascon was determined not to let his feelings show.

 

“What’s the plan for today?” Porthos asked as he finished off the last of his food.

 

d’Artagnan looked expectant at the larger man’s question and Aramis found himself shrugging, “Captain hasn’t given us an assignment so I expect we’ll spend the day training.”

 

As the words left Aramis’ mouth, his attention was drawn to Athos, the man approaching them with the Captain at his side, Treville splitting off from him at the base of the stairs and ascending, while the older man continued toward their table. At the inquiring expressions on the men’s faces, he confirmed what they’d already surmised, “Training today. Aramis,” he turned to the sharpshooter, “the Captain would like you to work with Pilet and Honoré; apparently neither of them can load a musket in under three minutes, which is something Treville hopes you can rectify.” The Spaniard gave a nod, waiting for Athos to share the remaining orders.

 

“Porthos, there’s a small group of new recruits who believe that their prowess with a blade eliminates the need to learn how to protect themselves without a weapon. I believe your unique style of teaching can dissuade them from this belief?” Porthos grinned and even Athos’ lips quirked in amusement, both men recognizing that the recruits would be sore and bruised by the time their lesson had concluded.

 

“What about me?” d’Artagnan asked and caught Athos’ darkening expression as the man replied.

 

“You’ll be practicing your swordwork,” Athos stated, not making eye contact.

 

“With you?” the Gascon pressed.

 

“No, there are others you can partner up with today,” Athos replied and moved away, already walking toward a section of the courtyard where a group of men was gathering, stretching in preparation for practice to begin.

 

As the three men stood and d’Artagnan prepared to follow the older man, Porthos gripped his arm for a second, trading a glance with the medic. “Did somethin’ happen between you and Athos?”

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes widened for a moment in surprise and Athos’ words echoed in his mind, reminding him of the promise he’d made. Forcing a smile he didn’t feel, he shook his head, “No. I’ll see you later.” With a small tug he freed himself from the Musketeer’s grip and joined the others, pairing off almost immediately with one of the other recruits. As they watched him go, Aramis and Porthos observed Athos turning away from the Gascon, making it patently clear that he would have no involvement in the boy’s training that day. The action had both men’s eyebrows lifting and they made a silent promise to keep an eye on things as they parted ways.

 

Once his first sparring match had begun, d’Artagnan was able to lose himself in the fluid motions that had become second nature to him. With each successive partner, his mind quieted, the doubts that had plagued him earlier stilling until they’d all but disappeared into the background. All of his attention was on the man across from him, observing the individual nuances that provided clues to his opponent’s next move that had him pulling from a repertoire of tactics to alternately deflect his attacker’s strikes and advance to place his own. Each sparring contest was an intricate dance of well-practiced manoeuvers that could save his life in battle or bring him to his knees if he guessed wrong.

 

As his eyes flicked to the side, following the feint of his partner’s sword, his arm followed and he found his blade out of place when his opponent changed tact, striking from the opposite side instead. d’Artagnan grinned at the talent displayed by the man and bowed his head, gracefully accepting that he’d been defeated. The other man nodded in return before turning on his heel to approach another partner. As he lifted the hem of his shirt up to scrub away some of the sweat that dotted his hairline, he found himself face to face with a serious-looking Athos. “That was a rudimentary mistake. You’ll need to do better than that if you wish to become a Musketeer.”

 

d’Artagnan bristled at the man’s words but was willing to acknowledge that he’d been fooled by his opponent’s feint. Trying to reason with the older man he countered, “There was no way of knowing that he would pull his strike and attack from the other side.”

 

A heartbeat later, he found his sword being swept upwards by Athos’ blade, the man obviously meaning for them to spar. The Gascon dropped the bottom of his shirt, which he still held in one hand, and took a tentative step backwards as he prepared to engage the other man. Athos’ advance was intense, leaving d’Artagnan perpetually on the defensive, barely managing to guard himself against the flurry of blows that came at him. Within a minute, Athos had feinted, just as his earlier partner had, and he found the older man’s blade pressed against his torso. “Again,” Athos ordered harshly, already preparing to attack.

 

They continued on in this fashion, unaware of the crowd of men they’d drawn, all of whom were now watching the two spar with rapt attention. After Athos’ fourth victory, the Gascon lifted his hands in surrender, backpedaling as he said, “Alright, you’ve proven your point.” But Athos was not finished and he advanced again, forcing d’Artagnan to lift his blade up awkwardly to parry, but his movement was a split second too late. The Gascon couldn’t stop the yelp that escaped him as Athos’ sword skittered across his forearm, the cry springing forth more from surprise than pain. The sound brought the older man to an immediate halt and he stood looking at d’Artagnan with a mix of consternation and fear on his face.

 

The young man’s left hand had flown to grip his right, pressing against the shallow wound as he tried to stem the bleeding. Noticing the expression on Athos’ face, he tried to assure the man, “It’s fine, Athos; nothing more than a scratch.”

 

Athos managed a shaky nod, back straightening as he said, “My apologies.” Without another word, he turned and pushed his way through the onlookers, missing Aramis’ and Porthos’ advance from the other direction as they tried to see what had everyone’s attention. At their approach, the gathered men began to disperse, knowing from experience how the inseparables were likely to react to Athos’ behaviour and d’Artagnan’s resulting injury.

 

“What the devil is goin’ on?” Porthos questioned as he shook his head at the group that dispersed in front of them.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis called as he spotted the young man in what would have been the centre of the group’s loose circle, gripping his arm tightly as small drops of red fell to the dirt at his feet. “What happened?” he asked, already taking the boy’s arm and moving to examine it.

 

d’Artagnan tugged his arm free of Aramis’ grasp as he answered, his tone tinged with annoyance, “It’s nothing. Just a lucky hit during practice.”

 

Narrowing his eyes disbelievingly, Porthos countered, “What was everyone lookin’ at then?”

 

The Gascon dropped his gaze to the ground as he took a steadying breath, realizing that his contest with Athos had drawn too much attention for it to remain a secret. “They were watching Athos teach me a lesson,” he gritted out.

 

Aramis had taken hold of his arm again and now looked up incredulously, “Athos did this?”

 

d’Artagnan gave a sharp nod, the pain in his arm beginning to make itself known now that the earlier adrenaline rush was wearing off. Sensing his rising discomfort, Aramis said, “Come with me and I’ll take care of this for you.” Turning to Porthos, he gave the man a meaningful look as he said, “Porthos, make sure Athos is alright.” The larger man tilted his head in understanding and walked off as the medic guided his patient back to his rooms.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Perhaps it would be easier to simply keep them apart for a few days, let Athos have the time he needs,” Aramis suggested, sharing the larger man’s worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos on the last chapter. Hope you enjoy this next part!

Porthos had checked the infirmary first, not actually believing that Athos would go there voluntarily but needing to confirm that the man wasn’t there regardless, if only for his own peace of mind. Visits to the Captain’s office, Serge’s kitchen and the stables followed in short order until the larger man’s feet eventually carried him through the garrison gates, heading for his friend’s apartments in the city.

 

Unbeknownst to him, Athos had been dumbstruck when he’d realized what he’d done, the sight of the Gascon’s blood welling up from between his fingers making him almost sick to his stomach. He hadn’t spoken with anyone, simply sheathed his sword, avoiding the telltale bit of red near the tip, and almost staggered to his rooms. As soon as he’d closed the door behind him, he drew a ragged breath that sounded too much like a sob, grasping blindly for a bottle of wine, uncorking it hastily and all but inhaling several deep mouthfuls before he had to stop and take a breath. It was oddly reminiscent of his panicked drinking a few days prior when he’d discovered Remy’s death in the village and he closed his eyes tightly against the congruence.

 

Collapsing into a chair, he placed the bottle and his arms on the table in front of him, not willing to release the wine yet as he recalled the events from earlier. He’d been uncomfortable the previous day when the alcohol haze had lifted and his mind had cleared sufficiently to realize all he’d shared with the boy. No one knew of his darkest secrets, not even his two brothers at the garrison, and suddenly he felt guilt in addition to the regret that now plagued him. How could he have spoken of his brother and wife to a relative stranger when his closest friends in all the world had no clue?

 

The thought had him drinking desperately again, needing the numbing effects that the wine promised, dulling the sharp edges of his world enough that he could face it. He knew that his actions toward the Gascon had bordered on rude, but had been unable to help himself, certain that if their eyes met, he would see his flaws and mistakes reflected in the boy’s face. The death of his brother had been his greatest failing in life and he could not bear to see d’Artagnan’s condemnation now that he knew the full story.

 

Worse yet was his own nagging disappointment at the fact that he still lived, having welcomed death at the moment his murderous wife had laid a blade at his throat, the peace and solitude the act promised intoxicating enough to have him begging her to proceed. For five years he’d carried the burden of his remorse and sorrow, in equal parts hating and longing for the woman he’d loved, having punished her out of duty and yet wanting nothing more than to spirit her away and protect her from harm. His friends would never understand how torn he was, and how his soul had been shredded to tatters as a result, leaving him as nothing more than a shell of a man, stumbling fitfully from one day to the next.

 

When he’d become a Musketeer, his friends had helped him slowly put the pieces of himself back together, their unquestioning loyalty and complete disregard for his past soothing some of the unseen wounds he carried. Over time, he hadn’t fully healed, but had at least managed to live productively, finding redemption in his service to the King and his fealty to his brothers. Although nothing could ever fully wash away the sins of his past, he’d managed to find some level of contentment and was not plagued overly by the crystal clear clarity of his memories, at least not until he’d been forced to return.

 

Aramis’ heartfelt plea for Porthos’ life was something he couldn’t ignore, despite his own need to ride as far away from the area as quickly as his horse could carry him. He’d done his best to ignore the looks of the villagers as they’d ridden through but knew that his friends would have questions once they’d arrived, and it had begun only moments after they’d entered through the grand double doors of his family home. Who did the house belong to? How could he not have told them that he was a son of the nobility? How many servants had been needed? Whose portrait hung on the wall? None of the questions were meant to harm, but each gouged out another piece of his heart until he felt all the progress he’d made over the past five years slipping away from him.

 

Tipping the bottle once more, Athos was surprised to find it empty, letting it drop from his hand as he pushed himself up and stumbled to get another. He’d just managed to pull the cork free when his door was flung open, sending a momentary pang of fear through him at the thought of being caught unaware and unprepared, but the feeling dissipated as quickly as it had come when he recognized his friend’s concerned face staring at him.

 

Porthos stepped through the doorway slowly, closing it behind him as he observed his friend. Athos looked haggard and crazed, as though he might try to flee at any moment; the contrast between this man and his usually composed friend was startling and made Porthos’ breath hitch with worry. “Athos,” he spoke lowly, “are you alright?”

 

Athos seemed to consider the question, still staring back, when he remembered the bottle in his hand and he availed himself of it, taking a large draught. “Athos,” Porthos’ voice carried a note of warning with it now, unwilling to let the man drink himself into a stupor in the middle of the day. “What’s goin’ on?” He took a step forward, gauging the other man’s reaction, and continued to move forward slowly when Athos’ didn’t seem to be bothered by his advance.

 

The older man gave a low grunt in response and took another swig of wine, Porthos’ eyes narrowing at the sight. “Athos, maybe that’s enough for now.” His eyes glanced meaningfully to the empty bottle he’d spotted on the floor before returning to his friend’s glazed blue eyes. Two more steps had the large man close enough to Athos to reach for the wine and take it from his grasp, slightly surprised when the older man easily relinquished his hold. Placing the bottle on the table, Porthos gripped Athos’ arm, leading him to the bed. The combination of too little breakfast and too much wine in such a short amount of time had left the older man’s senses and reactions dulled, and Porthos realized that they would not be returning to the garrison until Athos had slept off the alcohol.

 

Moving with great care, Porthos slipped the weapons from Athos’ waist before sitting him on the mattress, the older man swaying for a moment until he regained his equilibrium. Frowning, the large man undid the clasps of Athos’ doublet, slipping it from his friend’s shoulders before kneeling to pull Athos’ boots off his feet. The older man’s eyes were still clouded but Porthos could see something more in them that he couldn’t quite name; it was the same look the man had worn when they’d been forced to flee to his family home.

 

Sitting down next to his friend, Porthos gently bumped the man’s shoulder as he said, “d’Artagnan’s hurt.” The comment made Athos flinch but Porthos persisted, needing to know what had caused his friend to leave, especially after injuring the young man. “What happened at the garrison, Athos?”

 

For several long seconds, Athos considered lying to his friend, but their kinship was too deep for that type of deceit. Besides, half the garrison had borne witness to his unrestrained attacks on the boy, and no one in their right minds would describe what had happened as a simple training accident. Swallowing with difficulty, Athos replied, “I made a mistake.”

 

The creases in Porthos’ brow deepened at the vague answer, “What kind of mistake?”

 

Dropping his eyes to his lap, Athos’ hands twisted together as he searched for the right words, “I was trying to teach the boy a lesson.” Porthos recalled d’Artagnan saying the same, but still didn’t understand and waited patiently for his friend to continue. “I miscalculated. He wasn’t ready and I didn’t pull my hit quickly enough.”

 

Porthos knew from experience that training accidents occurred, and what Athos had just told him didn’t explain why he hadn’t stayed behind, at least to ensure that d’Artagnan received proper attention for his wound. Before he could ask anything further, Athos was mumbling softly, “I believe I’ll rest now.” Moments later he was slipping sideways towards the bed, and Porthos just managed to slow his body’s descent enough to help him lay on his side. Athos’ eyes closed immediately and Porthos looked at him worriedly, the information the older man had shared only troubling him further with its ambiguity, not lifting any of the confusion from his mind. Resigned that he would have to wait until the man woke, free from the effects of the wine he’d consumed, Porthos settled into a chair to watch over his friend.

* * *

d’Artagnan was certainly a poor patient, his tolerance of Aramis’ examination of his wound bordering on belligerence and the medic swallowed another sigh of frustration as the Gascon jerked his arm away at the burn of the strong liquor that he’d just poured over the slice. Reaching for it once more, Aramis took a firm grip as he placed the bottle on the table and pinned the young man with a hard look, “Do you want to lose this arm?”

 

d’Artagnan seemed a little shocked at the question and he swallowed, knowing fully that Aramis was only doing what was in his best interests. Releasing a slow breath he shook his head and did his best to allow the medic’s ministrations although he wanted nothing more than to bolt and see if Athos was alright. It was odd, he thought to himself, that he was the one injured but his concern revolved around the older man. When Athos had first engaged him, he’d thought little of it, even feeling a small twinge of relief that things seemed to be returning to normal. When Athos had defeated him for a second time and still persisted, he knew something was seriously wrong and this was no normal practice session. Each strike that the older man had dealt him was administered with all of the considerable force his body could muster, keeping d’Artagnan on the defensive nearly the entire time and for the first time fearful that the Musketeer might actually mean him harm. When he’d managed to spare a moment to glance at the older man’s eyes, his heart dropped at the haunted quality they possessed, and d’Artagnan realized that the man was exorcising his demons.

 

The Gascon could not begrudge him, understanding well how irrationally a man could behave when his thoughts were clouded by the past, and he’d willingly allowed Athos to take out his frustration on him, his brief flare of anger turning to pity as his mind turned again to the story the older man had recounted. Even when the Musketeer’s blade had pierced his skin, it had been shock not pain that had made him cry out, and after seeing the devastated expression on the man’s face, d’Artagnan wished he’d been stronger and able to prevent the sound from escaping.

 

“d’Artagnan,” his name drew his attention back to the present, realizing that Aramis was now looking at him with concern and had clearly spoken his name more than once. As he met the medic’s gaze, the man lifted a threaded needle into his line of sight, “I’ll need to place a few stitches.” Pausing for a moment, he asked, “Do you want something to drink first, to dull the pain?”

 

The Gascon shook his head, needing to keep his thinking clear so he could go after the older man as soon as he’d escaped Aramis’ clutches. The pain of the needle piercing his skin was sharp and he drew a quick breath at the feeling, followed immediately afterwards by the sensation of the thread dragging through his skin. It made his stomach lurch unhappily, and d’Artagnan shifted his gaze, focusing on a spot on the wall rather than the medic’s hands as he placed the small, precise stitches that would hold his skin closed and leave barely a scar behind.

 

“Breathe, d’Artagnan,” a low voice coaxed, and he followed the instructions, Aramis smiling slightly as the Gascon inhaled deeply. “I know it’s never pleasant, but passing out from a lack of oxygen is hardly going to make things any better.”

 

There was a hint of amusement in the medic’s tone and d’Artagnan found himself irritated by it. Didn’t the man understand what Athos was going through, the remorse he carried and how strongly he’d been affected by the last few days? And then it struck him – he didn’t know, just as Porthos didn’t, neither man privy to the events that had transpired either years or days ago. He was certain of this as his gaze flashed to the Spaniard’s, the man’s face a picture of concentration as he continued to sew the young man’s skin. Had the men been aware of what had happened, d’Artagnan was sure that they would have treated their friend far differently, hovering while seeming not to as they did their best to alleviate the scars that marred Athos’ psyche.

 

“All done,” Aramis announced, frowning slightly when d’Artagnan spared only the briefest glance at the neat stitches he’d placed.

 

“Is that it, then?” the Gascon asked, already making motions to stand.

 

Aramis placed a hand on his shoulder to keep him seated, “At least let me bandage it first.” He reached for a length of clean linen and began to wind it around the wound. “What’s your hurry, anyway?”

 

d’Artagnan’s face blanched as he wondered how to answer, recalling again his promise to the older man and beginning to regret it dearly. “No hurry,” he began, forcing himself to visibly relax as he waited for the medic to finish. “Just thought I’d head home and get some rest.”

 

Clearly that had been the wrong thing to say as Aramis tied off the bandage and then stared at him. While they may not have been in each other’s company all that long, they had already learned the young man’s propensity to play down his injuries and abhor rest. He watched as d’Artagnan worked to keep his expression neutral but saw enough that instinctively told him the young man had no intention of going home. “He won’t appreciate it, you know.” The statement made little sense to d’Artagnan and he frowned at Aramis’ words. “Athos, he won’t appreciate you going after him. If he left, he did so with good reason. You’d be better off just leaving him be and waiting until he approaches you.”

 

d’Artagnan swallowed thickly, surprised at how easily the other man had read his intentions and now torn between following his heart and listening to the medic’s advice. “What makes you think that?”

 

Aramis sighed as he scrubbed a hand through his curls, “Look, d’Artagnan, I realize you haven’t known us for very long, but Athos is a very private person. If he left, he did so because he needs some time alone with his thoughts.”

 

d’Artagnan lifted his chin up in defiance as he countered, “Then why did you send Porthos after him?”

 

Aramis seemed to slump a little as he was forced to explain, “It’s… _different_ between the three of us. We know what he needs and can give it to him while still letting him have his space.” Aramis trailed off, uncertain of how to continue without further offending the boy. “Look, I don’t expect you to understand but I ask you to respect his wishes.”

 

The Gascon stiffened and Aramis could see the look of hurt that crossed the young man’s features, but he nodded stiffly before rising and grabbing his weapons. “See you tomorrow?” Aramis called, but he received no reply from the retreating back. Cursing quietly, the medic cleaned up his supplies, intending to do exactly what he’d advised the boy against. 

* * *

d’Artagnan bit his lip, cradling his sore right arm in his left which also still held his weapons. He stood now off to one side of the courtyard, uncertain of what he was waiting for but sure that he’d know when he saw it. Minutes later Aramis came into sight and he watched as the Spaniard headed directly for the garrison gates, exiting onto the busy Parisian streets. Without thought, the Gascon pushed himself away from the wall where he’d been leaning, tucking himself in behind the other man so that he was close enough to keep the medic in sight, but not so close that the man would notice.

 

He had no idea what exactly he was doing, the rational part of his brain telling him that he should do as he’d told the medic, but he couldn’t help but feel the need to follow the Musketeer, certain that he knew where to find Athos and that the two of them needed to talk. Aramis wove through the streets confidently, obviously certain of where he was going. Soon, the Spaniard was approaching a house, pausing only momentarily to look around before pushing the door open and entering.

 

Now, d’Artagnan faced a dilemma; there was no way for him to continue unless he entered the house, something that increased the chances of being found out exponentially. At the same time, he couldn’t seem to stay away and before he was consciously aware of the fact, his feet were moving and he’d slipped silently inside. The entryway he stood within was dimly lit and a set of stairs sat almost directly in front of him. Placing his weapons on the ground by the door so he wasn’t hampered by them, he padded up the steps silently, guessing that if Athos had rooms here, they would likely be on the second floor.

 

As he alighted at the top, he could hear the soft sounds of voices and he pressed himself against the wall as he moved toward them. The conversation he heard was coming from behind a closed door and d’Artagnan pressed his ear up against the wood so he could better make out what was being said.

 

“You think it’s something the boy did?” Porthos asked, he and Aramis talking close to the door so they wouldn’t wake the still slumbering man.

 

“I don’t know what to think,” Aramis admitted, shaking his head sadly. “It’s obvious there’s something going on between them but neither of them has spoken a word of it.”

 

“Maybe it has somthin’ to do with d’Artagnan goin’ back for Athos?” Porthos suggested, trying to find a logical reason for the men’s behaviour.

 

“I suppose Athos would be put out by having him show up,” Aramis conceded, acknowledging it as the reason that he’d been unwilling to turn back as well.

 

“Whatever it is, we need to get to the bottom of it. Athos is right torn up about things and he was into his second bottle of wine by the time I found him,” Porthos stated, his brow furrowing with concern as his gaze drifted back to the sleeping man.

 

“Perhaps it would be easier to simply keep them apart for a few days, let Athos have the time he needs,” Aramis suggested, sharing the larger man’s worry.

 

Porthos shrugged, “Ultimately, it’ll be up to him, but we can try keeping the boy away for a few days if you think it’ll help.”

 

d’Artagnan had heard enough and he pulled away from the door, creeping back down the stairs and pausing only to pick up his weapons and slip back outside, hurrying on his way to the Bonacieux house.

 

A creak interrupted Aramis and Porthos and the larger man opened the door to look outside, wondering if Athos’ landlady was about, but the hallway was empty. Closing the door again, he turned his attention back to Aramis.

 

“I actually don’t think it will help. If I know Athos, he’ll wake up feeling guilty about what happened,” the Spaniard confessed.

 

Porthos’ lips quirked with a faint smile as he nodded, “Yeah, that’s what it seemed like to me too. He didn’t say much, but he did say he’d made a mistake, and I think he left more out of shock than anything else.”

 

“That settles it then,” Aramis declared. “We’ll wait for him to wake, make sure he gets a good meal tonight, and then seek out d’Artagnan in the morning so he can apologize. Hopefully whatever else happened will resolve itself.”

 

Porthos nodded in agreement at their plan and the two moved to the table, sitting down to play cards as they whiled away the time until Athos awoke.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You call this training?” she exclaimed angrily. “What’s the next lesson, learning how to stitch yourself up after someone stabs you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's continuing to read, comment and leave kudos on this story. Hope you enjoy this next bit!

d’Artagnan had tried hard not to be hurt by what he’d overheard while standing outside Athos’ rooms, but no matter how much he tried to convince himself that it didn’t matter, his heart kept disagreeing. He wasn’t sure exactly how or when it had happened, but he’d begun to like the odd trio of men and had thought the feelings to be mutual. It wasn’t that he’d gone out searching for their friendship but now, with one event after another reinforcing the fact that he was an outsider, he found that he was disappointed and felt more alone than he had since the first weeks surrounding his father’s passing.

 

The three men didn’t owe him anything, he reminded himself, least of all their friendship, a fact that he’d tried to drill into them time and again when they’d spoken of his assistance in clearing Athos’ name and the resulting debt they’d incurred. Yet, despite his best efforts to convince them, they’d continued to welcome him into their midst – well, perhaps not welcome, as he could recall several instances when Athos had seemed less than pleased to see him – but they’d all been friendly towards him, offering no hint that his presence was unwanted, let alone a nuisance.

 

That night, sleep eluded him, compounded by the steady throb of his arm; between its ache and his mind’s inability to still, it was a very weary Gascon who rose with the first rays of dawn. While he was grateful the night was at an end, he could admit that the time he’d spent awake had at least given him the opportunity to formulate a plan, and he dressed hurriedly in order to arrive at the garrison before most of the others were even out of their beds. He strode through the main gates, giving a nod of greeting to the two men guarding it, and marched directly for Treville’s office, only pausing once he stood outside the door, for the first time hesitating about whether or not to proceed.

 

It turned out that the decision was taken from his hands, the Captain opening the door in order to exit and finding himself face to face with the Gascon instead. “d’Artagnan, is there something I can do for you?” the Captain asked politely.

 

The young man gave a quick nod, casting a furtive glance inside and Treville stepped back to invite him in. They remained standing close to the door, but the Captain did close it in deference to the boy’s apparent desire for privacy. Pinning him with his best commander’s stare, he waited for the Gascon to speak. “Sir, I was wondering…” d’Artagnan trailed off, rethinking his words. “That is, I know that my status here is somewhat fluid…” he paused again at the Captain’s raised eyebrow. “I mean, I know that I’m not formally part of the regiment, and I appreciate the opportunity I’ve had to train with Athos, Aramis and Porthos.” He stopped as he realized he was rambling, taking a deep breath and collecting his thoughts. “I was wondering if I might have the chance to work with some of the others.”

 

Treville’s eyebrow had not descended and he observed the young man carefully, surprised by the request since the four men had seemed to coalesce together relatively well, something that was unusual for the other three. It was not that the Inseparables were averse to working with others, but regardless of who they were matched with, they never intentionally went out of their way to include others in their activities, especially when they occurred after hours. He wondered for a moment whether he should speak with Athos first, but the look of yearning on the young man’s face had him reconsidering.

 

d’Artagnan was correct in what he’d said; there was no formal arrangement between them, mostly because the young man didn’t have the financial means to be a recruit, but despite that, Treville had seen potential and had been willing to help his training along, informally, for as long as the boy wanted to keep coming back. It was the Captain’s hope that this course would eventually lead him to catching the King’s eye, resulting in his commission. From a purely rational standpoint, the Gascon’s request made good sense, a soldier training with a variety of men always trumping those whose experiences were more limited. Similarly, as a Musketeer, the boy would be expected to go on missions with others, so it might be a good idea to get him used to that reality early on.

 

Having made up his mind, he nodded, stroking his chin for a moment as he considered the day’s orders, “I was planning to have Rioux, Barteau and Girardot stay and train at the garrison today. They are usually deployed together and could benefit from having someone new around. You can join them if you’d like.” Treville’s last words had a hint of a questioning tone to them, but they needn’t have as d’Artagnan was already nodding.

 

“Very well, then,” the Captain agreed, “I’ll inform Rioux after morning muster.”

 

“Thank you, Captain,” d’Artagnan gave the man a small bow of his head and walked through the door once Treville pulled it open. The Captain watched the young man disappear back down the stairs and tried to quell the nagging doubt that made him wonder if he’d made the right decision. Sighing audibly, he closed the door behind him and went in search of breakfast.

* * *

Aramis and Porthos had stayed with Athos late into the night, waiting for him to wake and then ensuring he had a good meal, sopping up the last of the wine in his belly. Despite their repeated attempts to find out what had happened, the Musketeer remained tight-lipped until the two finally relented, resigning themselves to the fact that the older man would speak when he was ready. Aramis stopped by Athos’ rooms in the morning and the two made their way to the garrison in companionable silence, joining Porthos who waited for them at their usual table. As they’d done the night before, the two ensured Athos ate while they engaged in idle conversation.

 

As the time for muster drew near, Porthos looked around expectantly before turning to his companions to ask, “Seen d’Artagnan this morning?”

 

Aramis glanced around at the question to see if he could spot the young man, while Athos simply gave a small shake of his head. “I haven’t seen him. It’s rather unusual for him not to be here yet,” Aramis commented, a tinge of worry coloring his words.

 

Athos picked up on the tone and glanced at the medic, showing the first hint of interest in the Gascon’s well-being. Catching the look, Aramis gave another slight headshake, “He’s fine, Athos. It was a clean slice, not very deep and only needed a few stitches to close.”

 

Athos gave a nod, returning his attention to his plate, even though he had little appetite or interest in food.

 

“Maybe he got delayed by something at the house?” Porthos suggested, knowing that d’Artagnan had begun to assist Madame Bonacieux with various chores when her husband was away.

 

Aramis hummed noncommittally, his eyes darting back to the garrison gates every few seconds as though he could will the boy to appear. When Treville arrived and began to descend to the courtyard, they stood and joined the other men in formation. Unknown to them, d’Artagnan stood off to one side of the courtyard, obscured by shadow as he waited for muster to end so he could join his new training partners. He’d watched as Porthos had sat down to eat, joined soon after by Athos and Aramis. He could tell that the older man’s mood was still sombre and had promised himself that he would stay away from the three, not wanting to endure the experience of being asked by them to leave.

 

The Captain was efficient in his orders and minutes later the men dispersed, Aramis and Athos heading toward the stables while Porthos was shuffling off to meet up with some of the recruits. By the look on the larger man’s face, Treville had chosen to keep him at the garrison again in deference to his healing shoulder, a decision that didn’t sit well with the Musketeer. As the three stalked off, he caught the Captain’s wave to him and ducked out of the shadows to move to the man’s side.

 

“d’Artagnan, these are Rioux, Barteau and Girardot,” he said, motioning to each man in turn as he introduced them. “d’Artagnan hopes to earn his commission one day. Put him through his paces as you would any new recruit.” The men nodded in acknowledgement and Treville departed.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Barteau began, “why aren’t you with the others today?”

 

The Gascon’s expression was puzzled for a moment before he realized to whom the man was referring. “I asked the Captain if I could train with some others to broaden my skills.”

 

Rioux and Girardot nodded while Barteau stated, “You and Athos put on quite a show yesterday. What did you do to make him so mad?”

 

d’Artagnan’s face flushed at the memory and he looked down at his feet for a second before replying, “Athos was trying to teach me a lesson so I would recognize when someone was feinting.”

 

Barteau grinned and clapped him on the back, beginning to guide him over to a section of the courtyard which the three had obviously claimed as their own, “Well, then, let’s see if his lesson took.”

 

The Gascon dredged up a smile he didn’t feel as he nodded in agreement; after all, he’d asked for this and he would not make things between himself and Athos any more uncomfortable than they already were by persistently hanging around.

 

They began with swords and the three men took turns sparring with d’Artagnan, something he felt was somewhat unfair since the three of them rotated, allowing them to rest in between, while he was expected to take on each new opponent, one right after the other. Swallowing down his words of complaint, he met each man evenly, having some success early on and managing to defeat his partner at least fifty percent of the time. As time dragged on, and the three continued mercilessly, d’Artagnan felt himself beginning to flag, the combination of his sleepless night, lack of breakfast and injured arm conspiring to make him lose one match after another.

 

He was now paired against Barteau and the man was unrelenting in his attack, forcing d’Artagnan to continue stepping backwards as he barely managed to block the hits aimed at him. The Musketeer wore a self-satisfied smirk on his face as the weariness in the Gascon’s limbs made his movements sloppy and slow, sweat streaming down the sides of his face in rivulets. d’Artagnan saw the man’s expression and it momentarily fueled his tired body, giving him enough energy to go on the attack for a few blows, but it was short-lived and soon he was on the defensive again. Seconds later, Barteau feinted to one side, only to attack from the other, successfully defeating the Gascon just as Athos had, repeatedly, the day before.

 

“Apparently Athos’ lesson was in vain,” Barteau sneered at him, stalking off to get a drink while d’Artagnan stood bent over his knees, heaving for air.

 

The men had seemingly decided he’d had enough and had moved to one side to sit in the shade as they drank, and the young man waited for several minutes, until his breathing had returned to normal, before he walked over to have some water as well. As he reached for a cup, he noticed the stain of red on the cuff of his shirtsleeve, pulling his doublet back down to cover it before anyone else saw. Drinking quickly, he said, “I just need a few minutes.” Girardot gave a nod in return and d’Artagnan moved away, detouring toward the stables once he was out of sight.

 

He moved in behind the building, removing his doublet so he could examine his arm. A fair-sized portion of the bandage that Aramis had placed was red and enough blood had soaked through to stain his sleeve. As he unwound the bandage from his arm, he could see that a couple of the stitches were torn, no doubt from the ferocity of some of the hits he’d been forced to deflect. Sighing, he used the dirty linen to wipe away the blood as best he could before ripping a portion from the bottom of his shirt, wrapping it tightly around the seeping cut. When he was done, he rolled up both sleeves, the weather having warmed enough that he no longer wanted to wear his doublet, and then disposed of the soiled bandage before he returned to his training partners.

 

“Ready?” Rioux asked, squinting up at him against the sun. d’Artagnan gave a tilt of his head in reply and the three men rose, leading him back to their section of the courtyard. “Hand-to-hand next, I think.”

 

The Gascon dropped his doublet and weapons on the ground off to one side and prepared himself as Girardot approached, while the other two waited their turn; apparently this was to be a repeat of their earlier sparring with each man squaring off against him. Withholding the sigh of frustration that threatened, d’Artagnan adopted a fighting stance and waited for the other man to attack.

* * *

Athos and Aramis had been sent to deliver a message from Treville to the Cardinal, a task that ended up taking far longer than it should have given their proximity. The Cardinal seemed to take great pleasure in leaving Musketeers waiting at his pleasure, and the two men waited for nearly two hours before the man finally granted them an audience. After that things moved relatively quickly, Richelieu reading the short letter and penning a response which he imparted to the men to carry back with them.

 

Aramis had tried several times as they waited for an audience to engage Athos in conversation, but had only limited success. “Wonder where our Gascon got off to today,” he’d begun, hoping the older man would rise to the bait. “He’s coming along quite well, don’t you think?” He’d watched Athos carefully for any reaction to his words, but his friend had remained unreadable as always. “Did the two of you have a chance to spar yesterday?”

 

That got a response, Athos flinching slightly at the medic’s words and Aramis finally had a thread of a clue to follow. “How would you rate his skills with a sword?”

 

As hard as it was, Aramis let the question dangle between them, falling quiet and patiently biding his time as he waited for Athos to answer. With a small sigh, the older man replied, “Barely more than a novice.”

 

Aramis winced at the poor description, knowing that d’Artagnan’s skills were much greater than Athos was willing to admit. Pushing onwards he asked, “Any particular reason for your assessment?”

 

Athos pursed his lips for a moment, clearly unhappy with Aramis’ line of questioning, “He was defeated by Valois’ obvious feint.”

 

“Ah,” Aramis replied, still not really understanding but sensing he was getting closer. “And?”

 

Athos turned on him sharply, anger flaring in his eyes as he said, “Does it not concern you that he could be so easily fooled?”

 

“Surely that is a matter of experience…” Aramis began in defense of the young man, but was interrupted.

 

“Experience is something he’ll never gain if he’s killed because he can’t anticipate his opponent’s next move,” Athos declared. He fell silent then and Aramis could see the tension in his friend’s shoulders and jaw, both hands curled into fists as he fought to control himself. That had been the end of their conversation and they’d completed their assignment in silence, Athos only speaking when addressed by the Cardinal.

 

As they rode through the garrison gates, Aramis let out a quiet sigh of relief, the tension between himself and Athos becoming oppressive the longer it continued. Before they could even dismount, both Musketeers’ attentions were drawn to a loose gathering of men, and from their vantage points above everyone’s heads, Aramis could see five men engaged in a fist-fight. His lips began to quirk in a smile as he considered the tongue lashing and extra duties the men would receive from Treville as punishment, until his eye was drawn to a familiar head of ebony curls. “Porthos!” he exclaimed, sliding from his horse, not even bothering to hand the reins to the surprised stable boy as the marksman rushed past and into the melee.

 

Athos had heard Aramis and followed immediately in his wake, pushing men out of the way as needed in order to get to their friend. Despite his injured shoulder, Porthos had managed to hold his own, even though it seemed that it had been two against three, the large man landing a backhand blow with his left hand and dropping one of the others to his knees. The effort had Porthos reeling and he stumbled momentarily to one side before catching himself, turning to the other two as he goaded them to attack.

 

Before they could, Aramis was standing in front of Porthos, protecting him from the others as well as from himself, the medic already fearing what he would discover once he got a look at his friend’s stitches. Athos was beside him moments later, seething and in a mood to release some of the anger that he’d been feeling since the previous day. “What in God’s name is going on here?”

 

His loud bellow had the remaining spectators scattering, Aramis now supporting a gently swaying Porthos as he led the man back to his room. Athos’ voice reached upwards and had Treville standing and, moments later, striding down the stairs and across the courtyard to where he could see his lieutenant facing three others; no, four, his brain corrected as another rose to his feet. Athos was intimidating and the men in the garrison were familiar with the position of respect the Musketeer held with the Captain, but he also had no formal authority over the others, except for those times when Treville left him in command. As a result, the four men stood unspeaking, three of them glaring at Athos while the fourth kept his head down, staring at his feet.

 

Noticing Aramis walking away with Porthos, the Captain laid a hand on Athos’ shoulder as he leaned close and said, “Why don’t you go with them and confirm that Porthos hasn’t reinjured himself.”

 

Athos seemed ready to argue but finally gave a short nod, turning abruptly and following his friends. Treville’s focus turned back to the men in front of him - three Musketeers and one Gascon. Swallowing a sigh of irritation he asked, “Why were you fighting?”

 

The three looked hesitant to reply and with a quick glance at d’Artagnan, Rioux responded, “Weren’t fighting, just practicing hand-to-hand with the boy like you told us.”

 

The Captain’s eyes narrowed as he locked gazes with each man in turn, Girardot and Barteau both nodding in support of Rioux’s statement. “d’Artagnan, do you have anything to add?”

 

The Gascon kept his head down but his voice was clear as he answered, “Nothing, sir. We were just sparring.”

 

Clenching his fists behind his back as he did his best to remain calm, Treville questioned, “And Porthos?”

 

The three Musketeers exchanged looks before Barteau answered, “We were showing d’Artagnan how he could defend himself from more than one attacker. I think Porthos overreacted and thought the boy was getting hurt.”

 

“Are you hurt, d’Artagnan?” Treville asked, praying that the young man answered honestly.

 

“No, Captain, nothing more than the usual bruises that come from training,” the Gascon replied, continuing to stare at his boots.

 

“You’re certain you have nothing more to say, gentlemen?” Treville queried. The four men shook their heads so he took a steadying breath as he addressed them. “Very well. Go get cleaned up and get your weapons sorted. Rioux, you’ll be helping Serge in the kitchen for the next week, starting with tonight’s evening meal. Girardot and Barteau, there are some sections of the roof that have been leaking. Get some supplies from the carpenter’s stores and check out every inch and fix whatever holes you find.” The men stood waiting for d’Artagnan’s punishment to be announced but the Captain wanted to speak with the Gascon alone. “You’re dismissed,” he said to the three, “not you, d’Artagnan.”

 

When the three had moved away, Treville took another opportunity to examine the young man standing before him. He hoped that once they were alone that the Gascon might be more forthcoming with him, so he softened his voice and said, “d’Artagnan, if there is something more of which I should be aware, it would…”

 

d’Artagnan interrupted, not allowing the Captain to finish, “I beg your pardon, Captain, but there was nothing more. If you could please tell me my punishment, I’ll go get started.”

 

Treville quelled a surge of frustration, realizing that he would have to punish the boy even though he was suspicious of the story he’d been told; unfortunately, without proof, he had no choice but to accept it at face value. “You will report to the stables every morning for the next week to help with the care of the horses and to muck out the stalls.” d’Artagnan gave a nod but didn’t move, his body stiff with tension as he waited to be allowed to leave. “Dismissed,” Treville said, watching as the young man picked up his doublet and weapons and turned and walked toward the gates, no doubt planning to return to the room he rented before coming back early the following morning.

 

d’Artagnan kept his head down and his knees locked, forcing himself to keep his movements easy and fluid so that no one around him would suspect how much pain he was in. When Porthos had launched himself into the fight, Barteau had him in a headlock and Rioux had been placing well-aimed jabs at his ribs. By that point, he’d been having difficulty seeing clearly, an earlier lucky hit blackening his left eye and causing it to swell nearly closed.

 

His heart had lurched when the larger man had arrived, equal parts overjoyed at the man’s assistance while fearful that he would reinjure himself, but Porthos was a force to be reckoned with even while hurt. He’d pulled the Gascon out of Barteau’s grip, punching the Musketeer squarely in the nose and sending him staggering. Rioux had been sent to his knees with a vicious kick to the back of his legs and then he’d started in on Girardot. Given more time, d’Artagnan was certain that all three would have ended up in the infirmary and he’d felt a flush of warmth at the fact that Porthos had rushed in to defend him.

 

He'd been just as glad to see Aramis and Athos arrive, momentarily forgetting that he was trying to stay away from them. When the memory surfaced, he quickly stepped back out of the way, ducking his head and waiting to see what would happen. It had been another relief when the Captain had dismissed Athos, discharging the older Musketeer of the need to be in the Gascon’s company and being forced to be part of the embarrassing situation in which d’Artagnan now found himself. While he knew that the fight hadn’t been his fault, he also didn’t want any of the inseparables suffering for it, things between them already awkward enough.

 

He nearly sobbed with relief when he made it to the Bonacieux house and he steeled himself to appear less hurt than he felt, not wanting to worry Constance. Straightening his shoulders, he pushed open the door, mumbling a quick greeting to the woman as he passed by the kitchen. He should have realized that his attempt would fail, Constance being far more astute than others gave her credit for, as she turned in his direction and immediately took note of his condition. “d’Artagnan,” the voice was shocked but left no room for argument, “get back here this instant.”

 

The Gascon stopped and turned toward her, further raising his head so she could see the full extent of the bruising that darkened his skin. Walking forward quickly, she raised a hand and gently touched the cut below his eye and the swelling on his cheekbone, pulling away at his wince. “What happened to you?” she asked as she grasped his arm and pushed him into a chair, before scurrying away to get a bowl of water and clean cloths.

 

Once she’d returned and sat down across from him, she wet the cloth and began dabbing at the split skin, wiping away the small amount of blood. “Well?” she prodded.

 

"It was just training,” d’Artagnan mumbled, no more willing to share with her the truth of the day’s events than he had been with the Captain.

 

“You call this training?” she exclaimed angrily. “What’s the next lesson, learning how to stitch yourself up after someone stabs you?”

 

The Gascon flinched at her words as he was reminded of his previous injury and he drew his right arm towards himself, hoping that the woman wouldn’t notice his makeshift bandage. Again, he underestimated Constance’s observational skills and she reached for his arm as soon as she’d dropped the cloth she’d been using into the bowl beside her.

 

Deftly, she untied the bandage and began to unwind it, “What’s this then?”

 

“Another training accident,” he admitted, cursing inwardly that he’d been unable to get past her undiscovered.

 

“I don’t understand,” she said as she exposed the line of stitches, “this one’s been tended. Although it looks like some of the stitches have been torn,” she declared as she pressed at the slightly reddened skin.

 

d’Artagnan hissed as he pulled his arm away, “That’s because it happened yesterday.”

 

“Anything else I should be aware of?” she asked, her hard stare making him swallow uncomfortably before he shook his head no. Constance’s eyes narrowed, but without having him take his shirt off, she would find no further evidence of the Musketeer’s blows. She huffed before reaching for his arm again, her voice softer as she explained, “I’ll have to clean this. You should probably have the stitches redone.”

 

“That’s not necessary,” d’Artagnan spoke hurriedly. “If you bind it tightly, that should be enough.” She looked uncertain but nodded and did as he asked.

 

When she’d finished she looked at him with concern, “Are you sure you’re alright?”

 

“Fine, thank you for your help,” he assured her, rising stiffly from the chair and escaping to his room, relieved when he closed the door behind him to find himself blessedly alone. He moved stiffly to the bed, dropping his weapons and doublet on the floor before lowering himself down to sit at its edge. He steeled himself before grasping the hem of his shirt and pulling it up and over his head, dropping his arms back into his lap gratefully, hands still tangled in his shirtsleeves. Looking down, he got his first look at the damage the three men had inflicted and grimaced as he saw the bruises that were blossoming on his left side.

 

Working his right hand free from his sleeve, he pressed it gingerly against his ribcage, forcing himself to push hard enough to identify any shifting bones and fortunately finding none. Still, the pain was enough that it had him panting, his face covered with a sheen of sweat. Pulling his other hand free from his shirt, he threw it across the room to land in a pile in one corner, then toed off both boots before letting his body slowly slide to the side, leaving him lying on his right flank. He pulled his legs up onto the mattress, grabbing for the blanket and pulling it across his upper body. With a deep sigh, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Captain sends his regards and would like to remind you that’s it’s never a good idea to withhold the truth from him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the lovely comments about the troubles between Athos and d'Artagnan. More of the boys coming up as well as a look at present day events.

Aramis had forced Porthos to sit on his bed as soon as they’d made it to the larger man’s room. While Porthos had been a bit unsteady earlier from a blow to the jaw, he felt fine now and wished Aramis would stop his fussing, but the medic was adamant in his need to examine his friend. Resigned, Porthos allowed Aramis to help him remove his doublet and shirt, the contortions needed to accomplish the task still somewhat awkward with his healing shoulder.

 

Aramis expertly undressed the wound and prodded at it, satisfied that no additional damage had occurred. As he replaced the bandages he asked, “What were you thinking, Porthos, getting into a fistfight while injured? Are you really that determined to undo all my fine work?”

 

Although Porthos was a little annoyed with his friend’s questioning, he knew that the man’s words stemmed from concern and he could not fault the medic for that. With a sigh he said, “It couldn’t be helped, Aramis. Those three were beatin’ on d’Artagnan. I had to step in before he got hurt.”

 

“What?” Aramis looked at him sharply as he leaned back from what he’d been doing. “Surely that can’t be true.”

 

The medic helped Porthos slip back into his shirt and then the larger man continued, “One of them had him in a headlock while the other was beatin’ on his ribs. From the looks of things, they’d been takin’ turns at ‘im.”

 

“Then I wouldn’t want to be in their boots when Athos gets finished with them,” Aramis stated, his words trailing off as the older man walked through the door.

 

Athos walked directly toward them, throwing a questioning glance at the medic and Aramis replied to the unspoken question, “He’s fine, although he’ll have a nice bruise come morning.”

 

As he spoke, Porthos touched his jaw, wincing a bit at the soreness he encountered there. Grinning he said, “Couldn’t be helped. It was either this or let the punch hit my shoulder. I decided my hard head was the better choice.”

 

Aramis rolled his eyes at his friend’s antics while Athos’ shoulders eased perceptively, but it was clear that the older man wasn’t satisfied yet, “Why were you fighting, Porthos?”

 

Glancing up at Aramis first, Porthos returned his gaze to Athos as he explained, “It was three against one, Athos. Those ain’t fair odds for anyone. I was just evenin’ things out.”

 

Athos’ brow furrowed, knowing that there had been four men involved, but not having registered the men’s identities. “While I appreciate your strong sense of honor, surely it would have been better for the four to work things out amongst themselves.”

 

Comprehension dawned at the older man’s words and Aramis spoke softly as he said, “Athos, they were beating d’Artagnan.”

 

Athos’ eyebrows rose as he looked to Porthos for confirmation, the large man nodding in agreement, “They said they were trainin’ him to fight more than one man at a time.”

 

Athos’ hands and jaw were clenched once more, the feelings of embarrassment and anger he’d held earlier replaced by guilt and a need to know that the young man was alright. Aramis’ voice pulled him from his thoughts as the man questioned, “Did he seem alright, Athos?” At the older man’s vacant look, Aramis clarified, “d’Artagnan, did he seem alright to you when you left?”

 

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Athos admitted, “I didn’t even realize he was there, and Treville took over right away and dismissed me to see how Porthos was.”

 

The admission had Porthos rising and snagging his doublet while Aramis held the door open for them and they followed Athos out, the three intent on returning to the courtyard to check on the Gascon. When they arrived, the area was empty and it was obvious that the Captain had already dealt with the men. “Treville’s office?” Porthos offered, asking whether the other two thought they should go ask the man about d’Artagnan’s whereabouts.

 

Athos gave a short nod in reply and led the way up the stairs, pausing briefly to knock before receiving permission to enter. Treville looked up at the three from his desk, a small smile gracing his face when he saw Porthos. “Porthos, I’m glad to see you looking well. No further damage, I presume?” Both Aramis and Porthos shook their heads and the Captain’s smile grew. “I’m pleased to hear that. Now, what can I do for you?”

 

Athos seemed incredibly uncomfortable so Aramis stepped forward to pose their question, “It’s d’Artagnan, sir. We were wondering if you might know his whereabouts.” Trying to offer a reasonable explanation for their request, the medic went on, “I thought it might be prudent to check him over and ensure he’s not hurt.”

 

Privately, Treville had wondered how long it would take for the three men to show up, having observed the affinity they seemed to have for the young man, and he for them, and it was part of the reason he’d been surprised by d’Artagnan’s request to train with someone else. Leaning back in his chair he observed the three, Porthos wearing a somewhat eager expression on his face as he waited for an answer, Aramis with a need to care for their possibly injured friend and Athos – the older man’s expression puzzled him as he’d expected anger but what he saw instead was remorse. Giving a tilt of his head, he said, “He’s returned to his rooms, likely to get some rest before he begins his punishment.”

 

“Err, Captain, what is his punishment, if I may ask?” Porthos piped up.

 

“He’ll be mucking out the stables every morning for the next week,” Treville answered, waiting for a reaction from the three.

 

Smiling charmingly, Aramis interjected, “Captain, it’s come to our attention that d’Artagnan may have been innocent in all this and that the others were taking undue advantage of him.”

 

“Really,” Treville drawled, waiting for them to say more, confirming his earlier suspicions, something which the Gascon had been unwilling to do.

 

“Yes, sir,” Porthos added, “that’s why I got involved. Ain’t fair for any man to have to take on more than one man at a time, at least not in training.”

 

The Captain nodded thoughtfully as he replied, “Please have d’Artagnan report to me in the morning, and let him know that it’s never a good idea to withhold information from his Captain.”

 

The three ducked their heads as Treville waved a hand at them in dismissal. Stopping outside the man’s office, Aramis asked, “Do you think he’ll still make d’Artagnan work in the stables?”

 

Athos gave a slow shake of his head, “No, not as long as d’Artagnan is honest with him tomorrow.”

 

“Guess it’s up to us to convince him, then,” Porthos grinned as the three descended the stairs and crossed the courtyard, heading in unspoken agreement toward the Bonacieux house.

 

If Constance was surprised at their appearance at the door, she showed no indication of it, simply pursing her lips and standing aside to let them in, giving them a look of disapproval once they’d reached the kitchen. Noting the expression with some trepidation, Aramis plastered a charming grin on his face as he held his hat in his hands and asked, “Is there something we’ve done to offend you, Madame?”

 

“Humph, come to see the results of today’s training, have you?” she questioned pointedly, steaming ahead without awaiting a reply. “I don’t understand why you would allow someone to get hurt like this when it’s supposed to be just practice. Isn’t it enough that you’re in harm’s way every time you’re out on a mission?”

 

The stream of words made the men’s concerns flare and it was Athos who stepped forward to interrupt, “Madame, we were not the ones who inflicted d’Artagnan’s injuries. How is he?”

 

Her eyes widened at the revelation but she composed herself quickly, offering a small shrug in reply. “Says he’s fine,” the men rolled their eyes at the standard response, “but his arm was bleeding and he’s got quite the bruise on his face.”

 

Aramis gave a polite nod, “Then our arrival is fortuitous. With your permission, we’ll just go check on him?” Constance bit her lower lip for a moment and then nodded in agreement. The three quickly made their way back to the Gascon’s room, Aramis knocking perfunctorily before barging in, unwilling to wait for permission to enter.

 

They found d’Artagnan in bed, staring at their appearance in confusion. “What’s going on?” he questioned, already pushing himself up and preparing to rise and gather his things. “Are we needed at the garrison?”

 

“No,” Aramis smiled reassuringly, crossing the room to push the boy back onto the side of the bed.

 

“Then why are you here?” the Gascon asked in confusion.

 

“Just wanted to make sure you’re alright after today’s training,” Porthos offered and d’Artagnan winced before dropping his head, uncomfortable with the topic.

 

Drawing a breath he looked back at them and said, “I’m fine, thank you for coming.” He waited expectantly for them to leave as quiet fell over the group, Athos looking unusually uncertain and d’Artagnan growing anxious at their continued presence.

 

“Why don’t I confirm that for myself,” Aramis suggested, noting the tensing of the Gascon’s shoulders and the way in which he guarded his side with his left arm. “Athos and Porthos can go keep Madame Bonacieux company.” He sent both men a pointed look that begged them to leave and they reluctantly turned and exited the room.

 

“Now,” Aramis spoke easily, keeping his tone light, “Constance mentioned that your arm was bleeding.” He pulled the limb toward him, d’Artagnan resisting for a moment before he saw the pleading in the medic’s eyes and allowed him access.

 

As Aramis unwrapped the wound, he talked in an effort to distract the young man, “You know, this is remarkably reminiscent of the day you defeated Vadim. On that day, too, you returned here without having your wounds tended.”

 

d’Artagnan flinched but remained silent, knowing that he could not share his real reason for not seeking Aramis’ aid without also admitting that he’d been eavesdropping on their conversation. “You’ve torn a couple of stitches,” Aramis pointed out, the Gascon grunting noncommittally. “I’m going to assume you’d prefer that we just bind the wound instead of redoing these?” d’Artagnan nodded.

 

With a sigh, the medic agreed, replacing the bandage. “Alright, we’ll try it your way, but that will change if it’s not healing well.” When he’d finished, he motioned to the young man’s chest. “Porthos said you took some blows to the ribs.”

 

Knowing it would speed things along if he complied, d’Artagnan gritted his teeth and moved his arm aside, revealing the bruising that had begun to darken along his left flank. Aramis winced in sympathy as he gently pressed on the Gascon’s ribcage, the young man stating, “They’re just bruised, Aramis; I can tell the difference.”

 

The medic hummed in reply but continued until he was satisfied that d’Artagnan was correct. “I’ve some salve that will help with those.”

 

“That’s not necessary, Aramis,” d’Artagnan replied, struggling against the ache in his side as he rose and walked over to a chest that contained his things. It was a simple choice to select a clean shirt to wear, only having two more in addition to the one that was currently lying in the corner, stained with his blood. Knowing that it was not the Spaniard’s fault that he couldn’t be around the men, he said, “Thank you for coming by to check on me.”

 

“Mmm,” Aramis hummed again, worrying his lower lip.

 

“Is there something more?” d’Artagnan pressed, wondering why the man was still sitting there.

 

"No," the medic responded uncertainly before rising and striding to the door, pausing once it was open to loudly call Athos’ name. Turning to face the Gascon, he said “forgive me,” as he passed through the doorway, giving way to the older man who came hurriedly at the medic’s call and now found himself inside d’Artagnan’s room with the door firmly closed behind him.

 

“Athos, I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan stammered. “I have no idea why Aramis called for you.” The older man stood stock still just a few steps inside the room, staring at the livid bruises that darkened the young man’s eye and cheekbone. Misunderstanding Athos’ silence, the Gascon tried to fill the quiet, “I know you don’t want to be here and it’s fine, you can go. I’ve already asked the Captain to let me work with some of the others.”

 

“What?” the older man breathed out. “Is that what happened today?”

 

d’Artagnan gave a humourless smile as he answered, “No, today was Rioux’s way of reinforcing the lesson you tried to teach me.”

 

“He did this?” Athos asked lowly, the Gascon not understanding yet the danger of the man’s quiet tone.

 

d’Artagnan shrugged, “Not all of it. Barteau and Girardot helped.”

 

Athos felt his anger building again, not at the Gascon but at the Musketeers who had dared harm the young man. Quelling his rage as best he could, he asked, “Why did you ask to train with someone else?”

 

The Gascon gave another shrug as he searched for a viable explanation, “I thought it would round out my skills.” The hard stare that Athos gave him left little doubt that the man didn’t believe him and d’Artagnan began to fidget as the silence between them stretched. Sighing, the young man admitted, “I thought you might have felt uncomfortable after telling me about your brother and wife after the fire, and that it might be easier for you if I was not around as a constant reminder.”

 

“You thought it would be easier?” Athos repeated, stunned at how accurately the boy had read him. The Gascon gave a dip of his head in confirmation. Keeping his voice low and level through sheer force of will, the older Musketeer quietly exploded. “What makes you think you know what’s best for me? Furthermore, what gives you the right to decide how I am to feel about the things I shared with you? Am I to understand that you believe me too fragile to handle the consequences of my actions?” Athos was striding stiffly forward now, holding onto the last of his control as he prodded at d’Artagnan’s chest with two fingers. “If you were so concerned about my feelings, then you shouldn’t have come back in the first place. I was prepared to face my ghosts alone and would have happily accepted whatever outcome God has in mind for me.”

 

“I…I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan stuttered, “that’s not what I meant. I only came back because you seemed upset at being back in your home.”

 

“And you believe that to be an _unusual_ response?” Athos spat, his words heavy with sarcasm.

 

“No,” d’Artagnan cried, trying to make the man understand. “You had… _have_ every right to feel that way. I returned out of concern for a friend, nothing more.” The word _friend_ cut through the haze of anger that clouded Athos’ mind and he looked at the boy sharply as he processed its meaning. At the same time, the Gascon’s brain was catching up with the Musketeer’s words and now it was his turn to be upset. “What do you mean you would have accepted the outcome?” His eyes narrowed and he saw the truth reflected in Athos’ eyes as he breathed out, “You were ready to die.”

 

Athos turned and took a step away, unable to hold the young man’s accusing gaze, his anger at the situation quickly replaced with shame at having been found out. His voice was strangled as he spoke softly, “You can never tell the others.”

 

d’Artagnan’s fury rose and his body followed, propelling him to his feet to close the short distance between the two of them, spinning the other man around with a hand on one arm. “Not tell them that you want to die?” he asked, incredulously.

 

“You promised,” Athos reminded him, still looking away.

 

“No” d’Artagnan shook his head. “I promised not to tell them about your brother and wife, but this…” he trailed off, swallowing thickly with the enormity of the man’s admission. “Athos, not this. If you won’t tell them, I will,” he finished quietly. As he said the words, he realized that this could be the end of things between them, but he knew he could never live with himself if the older man somehow found a way to achieve his objective, seeking death rather than fighting to live.

 

They stood in silence for several long moments, d’Artagnan letting his hand drop from Athos’ arm. Finally, Athos gave a tired nod as he said, “I will tell them, but you will let me do it in my own time.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a shaky nod in return, grateful that he would not have to break his promise and divulge the man’s secrets. “However,” Athos’ voice hardened once more, “you will endeavor not to make such foolhardy decisions in the future. Whatever possessed you to think that I would ask you to distance yourself?”

 

The Gascon offered a one-sided shrug as he said, “Well, there was the other day when you refused to practice with me and your very enthusiastic lesson afterwards.” Athos had the grace to wince at the words, noting that d’Artagnan’s hand unconsciously moved to hold his injured arm. d’Artagnan continued, his expression sheepish, figuring that it would be best to be completely honest, “And I heard Aramis and Porthos talking afterwards, in your rooms.”

 

Athos’ brow furrowed in confusion, “What are you talking about?”

 

“They said it would be for the best if they kept us apart for a while,” the Gascon explained.

 

“I see,” Athos replied, making a note to speak with the two men next. In an uncharacteristic fashion, the older man clasped the young man’s shoulder, giving it a brief squeeze. “Perhaps we should see what they’re up to. I’m quite certain that if we stay in here much longer, we’ll have both of them breaking down the door to make sure we’re both still alive.”

 

As they moved toward the doorway, Athos added, “The Captain sends his regards and would like to remind you that’s it’s never a good idea to withhold the truth from him.” d’Artagnan blanched as the older man continued, “You are report to him first thing in the morning and I recommend you provide the full details of today’s _training accident_ so your punishment may be properly assessed.” A genuine smile flashed across the Gascon’s face and Athos nodded in satisfaction, confident that the boy had understood.

* * *

_ Present day: _

 

_“Isn’t it enough that you’re in harm’s way every time you’re out on a mission?”_ Constance’s words echoed through Athos’ head as he recalled the events of that day. His choices had led to the Gascon’s unnecessary injuries and it was the first time the man had felt a surprising surge of protectiveness towards the boy. The strong emotion had driven him to first berate Aramis and Porthos, a smirking d’Artagnan at his side, until the tables turned and it was revealed that the men had decided against the idea of keeping the two apart, something unknown to the Gascon because of the timing of his departure.

 

While the Captain had already punished the three men responsible for the young man’s condition, the three friends also doled their own retribution, until the word silently spread throughout the garrison that d’Artagnan was not to be toyed with again. The Gascon had been unaware of what the men had done, but the act had been immensely satisfying for Athos and he felt some of his guilt at what had transpired slowly falling away. Now, as he rode frantically toward Paris, having no recourse other than to finish their mission before returning to search for the young man, Athos chafed at the knowledge that he could not protect the boy.

 

After the attack, they had ridden swiftly to secure their charge, a second cousin to the Queen, in a remote spot where the lady would be safe. He’d ordered Aramis and Porthos to stay behind and protect the woman, while he’d embarked on the journey back to the garrison in order to secure more troops and ensure the lady’s safety. His friends had vehemently opposed his decision to further divide their numbers, but ultimately realized there was little choice. Unfortunately, the solitary ride he now undertook allowed far too much time for introspection, his mind conjuring all sorts of terrible scenarios, all of which culminated in the Gascon’s mistreatment and suffering.

 

Athos pushed himself and his horse beyond their limits, his mind ticking off each minute on an imaginary clock, understanding that time was of the essence since the bandits who’d attacked them would eventually kill the boy when he couldn’t tell them the location of their target. Feeling the trembling animal beneath him, he placed a hand on the quivering flesh of its neck as he whispered, “Just a little bit further and then you can rest.” He prayed that it would be enough.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If they were to survive, they would need to cover as much ground as possible before resting for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented on the last chapter to let me know their thoughts on the talk between Athos and d'Artagnan. Hope you enjoy this next part!

“If this gets me hanged, I shall be very put out,” d’Artagnan recalled the words he’d spoken when he’d discovered Aramis with Marsac, learning of the latter man’s involvement with the Spaniard’s past which had brought with it a swell of unwelcome memories and emotions. The Gascon had no idea what had possessed him in that instant to agree with his friend and willfully keep Marsac’s appearance a secret, but his heart had guided his words and they’d tumbled out before rational thought could intervene.

 

The following days were challenging as Aramis’ need to know the truth about Savoy conflicted with his duty to the King and his loyalty to Treville. In the end, neither had mattered and he’d been forced to shoot his former friend, releasing the man from the agony of his existence. Whether out of guilt or because it was the honorable thing to do, the Captain had somehow managed to have Marsac’s remains laid to rest among his other fallen brothers and, long after the man’s casket had been interned, Aramis stayed at his former friend’s graveside, grieving in the rain.

 

Athos and Porthos knew how troubling Marsac’s reappearance had been for Aramis, the events of Savoy always just a bad memory or two away from becoming a vile, festering wound upon the man’s soul. As they’d expected, the marksman withdrew into himself in the days following, unwilling to share any of his burden with the men, even Treville giving him a wide berth and allowing Aramis to mourn. d’Artagnan watched as the Spaniard spent progressively more time alone despite Athos’ and Porthos’ best efforts to engage him. The Gascon was familiar with Aramis’ need to be by himself, having seen his father react similarly after the death of his wife. It was not until he’d been forced to face life again that the elder d’Artagnan had shaken off the fugue that had encompassed him, and d’Artagnan decided that it was time for the marksman to do the same.

 

It had been a week since Aramis had shot Marsac and he knew that the Captain would soon be compelled to place the man back on active duty. Porthos and Athos had already been assigned to the palace that day, Treville having been unable to keep them off rotation any longer; it had been mere chance that d’Artagnan had been kept back at the garrison for training instead. Steeling himself, the Gascon entered the Captain’s office, presenting himself in front of the man seated behind the heavy oak desk.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Treville said in greeting. “What can I do for you?”

 

“Captain, I have been observing Aramis,” the Captain flinched at the Gascon’s words. “I’m worried about him.”

 

Treville held up a hand, “I can’t keep him off duty indefinitely.”

 

d’Artagnan shook his head, “I agree, sir. I think it’s time he was forced to return to life. If you have anything that would take us away from the garrison for a day or two, I’d be happy to accompany him.”

 

The Captain’s eyebrow rose in surprise at the offer. Changing tact for a moment, he said, “I understand that Athos and Porthos haven’t had much success in drawing him out since Marsac’s death.” The Gascon gave a tilt of his head in agreement. “What makes you think you’ll be any more successful?”

 

d’Artagnan looked at him with nothing but sincerity in his eyes as he replied, “I recognize in him the same suffering that my father endured when we lost my mother. I helped him back then and I would like to try and help Aramis, too.” He paused for a moment and licked his lips, “Athos and Porthos have been treating him like a fragile porcelain doll that may break at any moment. I believe he needs to be reminded that he’s anything but.”

 

What the young man said was true. Aramis’ two closest friends had been catering to his every mood, cajoling him to eat and to rest, allowing him to be quiet and pull away from the rest of the world. Perhaps d’Artagnan had a point and the opposite approach was needed.

 

“Very well,” he agreed as he searched through the parchments on his desk. “This missive from the Cardinal needs to be delivered to Vauluisant Abbey. It’s a day’s ride there and the monks will likely provide you with rooms overnight.” As Treville finished speaking, d’Artagnan was already nodding.

 

“Thank you, Captain,” d’Artagnan gave the man a small bow of his head and left to find Aramis. Treville watched the young man disappear and tried to quell an unsettled feeling in his stomach that made him wonder if he’d made the right decision. Sighing audibly, he refocused on the seemingly unending paperwork that covered his desk.

* * *

“Tell me again why _we_ had to deliver this message?” Aramis asked, a trace of a whine evident in his tone.

 

d'Artagnan remained facing forward, drawing on a well of patience that his friend’s complaining was rapidly depleting. While the Gascon was glad that Aramis was more talkative than he had been for the past week, the hours since they’d departed from the garrison had been filled with little more than one argument after another about why someone else should have been sent in their place. While the young man could admit that some of the explanations had been quite creative, he couldn’t help but feel a rush of annoyance that his friend had not yet accepted the fact that they would complete this mission regardless of what Aramis wanted.

 

“As I told you earlier, Aramis, it’s our duty to be of service to the King,” d’Artagnan said evenly.

 

“But this isn’t for the King, this is the Cardinal’s message; why couldn’t the Red Guards take care of it?” the Spaniard countered and as the young man glanced sideways at his friend, he could have sworn he saw a pout.

 

Swallowing the sigh of irritation that threatened to escape, the Gascon soothed, “Perhaps he’s finally recognized how poor their skills are and asked the Captain for help to ensure the safe delivery of his letter.”

 

Aramis huffed in reply, but said nothing further, prompting d’Artagnan to send a silent prayer of thanks that the man had let the matter drop, if only temporarily.

 

Their trip had so far been pleasant enough, the temperature warm but kept comfortable by a steady breeze. They alternated the horses between a walk and a canter, having plenty of time to reach their destination. It was a mission that would have normally been a welcome respite from some of their other duties, but today, Aramis could only feel put out by the fact that he’d been pulled from his solitary brooding. He knew that Athos and Porthos had been nothing but understanding with his moods, checking on him regularly, making sure he had food and wine and even spending the first few nights with him to keep the night terrors at bay.

 

Rationally, Aramis realized that he’d worried his friends but he couldn’t seem to spare the energy to really care or to be able to overcome the melancholy that now gripped him. Even the Captain had been overly generous in allowing him time away to grieve, carefully soliciting information about his health from one of the others while staying out of sight of the marksman. Aramis knew that being in his presence these days was an uncomfortable challenge, but he was inexplicably mired, stuck fast by remorse and despair over Marsac’s death, with no idea how to pull himself free.

 

“Aramis!” The panicked tone had the Spaniard’s head coming up sharply, jolting him from his thoughts only to be pushed sideways from his horse as a tremendous force hurled into his right side. Seconds later the ground came up to meet him and he grunted in pain as his landing pushed the air from his lungs. Stunned, he lay on his back as he blinked up at the sky, his dazed mind trying to comprehend what had happened. The sound of steel clashing had him rousing slightly, trying to push himself up before falling back, panting at the throb in his flank.

 

His right arm moved stutteringly, the act of controlling it momentarily beyond him, and he struggled to comprehend the wetness he felt on his fingertips. Shakily bringing his hand upwards, he blinked sluggishly at the red he saw there, before losing strength and letting his arm fall back to his side. At the sight of the blood, he became aware of the pain, spiking hotly in his side and making him gasp with its intensity. He squeezed his eyes closed against the sensation, hoping to will it away enough so that he could focus through the haze which now engulfed him.

 

“Aramis!” His eyes flew open at the sound, the voice insistent and needy and, with effort, he forced himself to reply.

 

“Still here,” the Spaniard said, surprised at the effort the two words had required.

 

“Thank God.” Apparently his response had been sufficient and Aramis found comfort in that fact, allowing his eyes to slip closed again, lacking the energy to keep them open. He drifted at that point, unaware of the battle that was taking place around him, d’Artagnan having defeated one man and battling against two others, in order to keep his fallen comrade safe.

 

The Gascon’s heart had leapt into his throat when Aramis had first remained unresponsive to his warning about the attack and then subsequently fallen from his horse after a lucky shot from one of the bandits had hit him. d’Artagnan had no way of knowing how badly injured his friend was and, as he’d fought against the three, had been continually calling Aramis’ name, desperately waiting for a reply to let him know that the man still lived.

 

He’d managed to shoot one of the bandits while the other two had engaged him with their swords, and d’Artagnan now found himself breathing heavily and sweating with the exertion of fighting two opponents at once. While the men were not overly skilled, the mental focus and physical prowess needed to keep two blades at bay was slowly but surely sapping his energy, and he desperately needed to end things and check on his fallen friend. One of his attackers momentarily stepped back and out of the fray; the Gascon could only be grateful for the act, not realizing that the man had done so in order to allow his comrade time to distract the fledgling Musketeer. That fact became painfully apparent as d’Artagnan caught a momentary flash of movement in his peripheral vision before feeling a sharp pain in his thigh that had him stumbling to his knees, barely halting his forward motion with his hands.

 

It was all the time the two outlaws needed, both men dashing for the horses to catch the leads of all the animals before mounting and galloping away. By the time d’Artagnan managed to raise his head and look around, he and Aramis were alone in the clearing, the thieves having taken their mounts and all their supplies, leaving them with nothing. A spark of fear shot through d’Artagnan’s gut at the realization that they were stranded, many miles from Paris, with nothing but the clothes on their backs and the weapons around their waists.

 

Getting a foot underneath him, d’Artagnan pushed himself up, only to almost fall back to the ground as the pain in his leg threatened to make the limb buckle. Shocked, the Gascon’s eyes searched for the source of the pain, landing on a slice across his thigh that was several inches long and bleeding sluggishly. With a grunt of irritation, he pushed himself upwards once more, forcing the leg to bear his weight so he could stumble to the Spaniard’s side. When he dropped to his knees next to the man, Aramis’ eyes were closed and his breathing was rapid and shallow. “Aramis, can your hear me?” d’Artagnan asked as he immediately began to work to remove the man’s belt and sash so he could gain access to his friend’s side.

 

It wasn’t until he’d opened Aramis’ doublet and pulled up the hem of his shirt that the marksman gave the first signs of awareness, his head lolling to one side as he moaned. “Sorry, Aramis, this is going to hurt,” the Gascon muttered as he took the folded up sash and pressed it firmly against the hole in his friend’s side.

 

Aramis’ eyes flew open as he gasped out a cry of pain, his breathing increasing while he struggled against the flare of heat in his flank. His right hand came up weakly to try and stop the source of the ache, but d’Artagnan easily pushed it back down, unrelenting in the pressure he held against the wound. “What?” the medic gasped out, eyes rolling as they tried to focus and comprehend what was happening.

 

“Aramis, can you hear me?” the Gascon questioned, watching as his friend tried to gather his wits.

 

The sound of his voice drew the Spaniard’s attention to him and he finally seemed to focus on the young man’s face. “What happened?” the medic asked, his voice strangled as he pushed out the words.

 

“You were shot,” d’Artagnan replied shortly, angry with himself for not having been fast enough to prevent the injury and then failing a second time by allowing their attackers to steal their horses.

 

Aramis gave a dip of his head in understanding, “Yes, that’s what it feels like.”

 

The Gascon gave a mirthless snort at his friend’s comment. “Aramis, I need to check your back for an exit wound. Can you move at all?”

 

The Spaniard began to make weak movements and, with d’Artagnan’s help, managed to roll far enough onto his left side for the young man to reach underneath to look for a second wound. With a sigh of relief, the Gascon viewed the stain of red on the man’s back, grateful that he would be spared the experience of having to dig around in his friend’s flank for the lead ball that had pierced his skin. “I have good news and bad news,” d’Artagnan said as he struggled to rip a portion off the bottom of his shirt to use as a second bandage. Aramis only grunted in reply, the position he was in too painful to allow anything more. “The good news is that the ball passed through.” Wadding up the linen he’d torn, he pressed it firmly against Aramis’ back, “the bad news is that you have a pair of matching holes.”

 

“You call that….bad news…” Aramis breathed heavily against the pulsing that consumed his lower right side. “We’ve had worse.”

 

d’Artagnan grimaced at his friend’s words, knowing that he would need to be completely honest about their situation. “Actually, the worst news is that the men who attacked us also stole our horses. Aramis,” he bit his lip for a moment as he paused, “they took everything.”

 

“I’ll grant you,” Aramis panted, “that is worse news.”

 

The Gascon hung his head for a moment, collecting himself as the enormity of their circumstances threatened to overwhelm him. By his estimate, it was at least 10 miles back to Paris. Aramis was wounded and d’Artagnan had nothing with which to help him, not even a drop of water to soothe his parched throat. In the best conditions, a 10-mile march wasn’t overly daunting; with a wounded man and without supplies, the distance might as well have been a hundred miles for all the likelihood they had of successfully completing it.

 

Drawing a steadying breath, d’Artagnan pushed the doubt from his voice as he said, “I need to bind your wound and then we need to start walking. We’ll need to find water and someplace to sleep before darkness falls.”

 

Aramis knew their situation was dire and had little confidence in his ability to stand let alone walk but he gamely gave a slight nod. “Do what you have to and then get me on my feet.”

 

d’Artagnan appreciated his friend’s determination, which would be greatly tested in the coming hours. They were not expected back at the garrison until the following night, and he knew from experience that Treville would likely wait until the following morning, at least, before sending someone out to look for them. That meant two days of keeping himself and Aramis alive, and ensuring the man didn’t bleed out. Gritting his teeth, he began to position Aramis’ belt under his back, allowing his friend to roll back down on top of it once he’d finished. Grasping both ends, he gave a quick word of warning, “This will hurt.” He pulled on the two ends of the belt, tightening it around the man’s middle, effectively keeping pressure on the makeshift bandages he’d placed against the two wounds.

 

Aramis did his best to stay silent, allowing only a harsh gasp at the pain the Gascon had caused. He understood as well as d’Artagnan how difficult the next days would be and had no wish to make things any harder with his cries of pain. When d’Artagnan had finished, he allowed Aramis several minutes to recover, taking the time to slip his doublet from one shoulder, ripping the sleeve of his shirt free. The torn fabric was wound tightly around his thigh, the Gascon recognizing that he wouldn’t be able to take care of his injured friend if he succumbed to blood loss or infection himself. When he was done, he placed a hand on Aramis’ shoulder, the medic opening eyes that he didn’t remember closing. “Ready?” the Gascon asked.

 

_“Ready for what?”_ Aramis thought to himself, before recalling that they needed to move. He gave a nod as he lifted a hand, waiting for the young man to grab it. d’Artagnan did so, but not to pull him up. Instead, the Gascon raised him gently to a seated position with a hand at his back, ducking under the medic’s shoulder before hauling him to his feet.

 

Aramis swayed dangerously as his blood pressure adjusted to the new elevation and when the dizziness passed, he could hear himself panting harshly for air. They hadn’t even started walking yet, and the medic was already feeling dangerously weak. Deciding that dwelling on things was not going to improve how he was feeling, he managed to say, “Alright, let’s go.”

 

d’Artagnan slipped a hand around his friend’s waist and tugged, moving them into a poorly balanced stagger, the Gascon taking most of the marksman’s weight. Each step they took drove a burning spike into the young man’s thigh and he clenched his jaw to keep any sounds from escaping. Aramis had enough to deal with as it was without knowing that the man he relied upon to keep him safe was wounded as well. Besides, the knowledge of his injury would change nothing and simply cause the medic to worry since there wasn’t anything they could do about either of their wounds. Glancing upwards, d’Artagnan noted the position of the sun in the sky, calculating that it was early afternoon, leaving them with several hours of daylight before evening fell. If they were to survive, they would need to cover as much ground as possible before resting for the night.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the time that he’d covered both wounds, Aramis was unconscious, having passed out while d’Artagnan was tending his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the lovely reactions to the last chapter. Hope you enjoy this next one!

Porthos and Athos arrived shortly after the evening meal had been served, having been kept late at the palace after the King and Queen had wandered inside to rest and forgotten to dismiss them. Porthos had chafed at the unnecessary delay, but there was nothing to be done and Athos’ look of warning had him standing his ground until one of the Queen’s ladies pointed out the Musketeers’ plight to the Royal and she took it upon herself to do what the King had not and relieved them of duty.

 

The men were tired but understandably eager to return to the garrison, having spent the entire day worrying about Aramis who barely left his room any more. As such, they were doubly surprised to find the space empty, a quick look around also highlighting that the man’s weapons were gone. Quelling the fears that were taking hold, Athos silently led the way to the Captain’s office, both men wound tightly with the anticipation of what they might discover. The older Musketeer barely paused to knock, knowing that his actions bordered on rudeness but unable to help himself as the need to know Aramis’ whereabouts propelled him forward. “Captain,” Athos gave a short nod of greeting. “We are looking for Aramis; he’s not in his room.”

 

Treville forced himself to keep his smile at bay, the men’s actions incredibly predictable and yet, he well knew, fueled by concern. “Aramis is out on a mission,” the Captain began, only to be interrupted by Porthos.

 

“Begging your pardon, sir, but is that a good idea?” he asked, worry etched deeply on his features.

 

The Captain reminded himself that this was why the threesome were called the Inseparables, and he pushed aside the irritation that had flared at Porthos’ question. “I am confident that d’Artagnan will take good care of him. You can see for yourselves when they return, tomorrow night.”

 

The news that the Gascon accompanied their friend eased the tight band of fear around the Musketeers’ chests slightly, but Athos was not yet satisfied, “It’s just the two of them?”

 

The Captain nodded as he explained further, “It was d’Artagnan’s request. He felt that Aramis might need some semblance of normalcy to return to himself.” Treville shrugged as he admitted, “I agreed that it was worth a try.”

 

Athos kept his features expressionless while Porthos worried his lower lip. Both men knew that Aramis hadn’t been improving and, despite their best efforts, the man continued to slip away from them. d’Artagnan had remained on the periphery of their hovering, the boy still somewhat an outsider and the full details of Savoy and Aramis’ subsequent recovery too raw and intimate to share with the young man. Yet, it appeared that they had underestimated the Gascon and that he understood far more than they’d given him credit for, realizing the despondency that plagued their brother and, more importantly, was willing to do something that might help. While the two were unhappy at d’Artagnan’s decision, especially since he had approached the Captain without their knowledge, they could not help but respect the fact that the Gascon may have done what they could not – remind the marksman how to live again.

 

Athos cleared his throat as he digested the full implication of the Captain’s words, “Tomorrow night, you say?”

 

Treville nodded, “It was a simple mission, Athos.” He softened his tone as he continued, “Delivery of a missive to Vauluisant Abbey. I’m confident the Brothers there will give them rooms for the night and they’ll be back in time for dinner tomorrow.”

 

Porthos and Athos traded looks, the former man speaking, “Thank you, Captain.”

 

Treville gave a dip of his head in return, watching as the two men left. The uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach had returned and he wondered again if there was truly cause for worry or if he was simply reacting to Athos’ and Porthos’ anxiety. Hoping it was the latter, he pushed up from his desk and reached for the brandy; perhaps a glass or two of the strong spirit would help settle his mind.

* * *

Agony; there was no other way to describe the feeling that now engulfed him, each step igniting nerves that were already overtaxed, sending fiery tendrils of pain to his brain and making him gasp with each move he made. Sweat beaded at his temple and ran in lazy rivulets down his face and into his eyes, making them burn and sting, and he blinked furiously to try and clear them, not having a hand free to wipe the offensive moisture away. His breaths whistled harshly in and out of his chest with the exertion of his efforts but he dared not stop; not yet, they were still too far from their goal.

 

Next to him Aramis was leaden and pliable, barely managing any of his own weight, his head hanging down to his chest, and d’Artagnan knew the man was more unconscious than aware, and he momentarily envied his friend the respite the darkness brought. The marksman had gamely kept up with the steady pace the Gascon had set, his teeth gritted against the cries of pain that wanted to burst forth every time his side was jarred. d’Artagnan had initially positioned himself on the Spaniard’s left side, wrapping his right arm around the man’s waist and placing his hand across one of the wounds to further stem the flow of blood, but he’d quickly seen the error of that decision when each lurching step had his friend nearly biting through his lip in agony as the pain in his side flared. They switched sides then, the Gascon trying to take care not rub against either of the holes the ball had made when it had passed through Aramis’ side, but it was a nearly impossible endeavor and d’Artagnan resigned himself to push away the guilt he felt at each whimper and shudder that racked the man beside him as they walked.

 

They’d made their best progress during the first hour, Aramis not yet too far gone, and they were able to keep their feet shuffling forward at a relatively good speed, good considering they were both wounded. d’Artagnan had brought them to a halt when they’d reached a shaded area, offering a short respite from the sun that beat down on them and increased their thirst. The second hour had been harder, the Gascon resolutely ignoring the way that his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and his injured leg screamed every time he shifted his weight to it; most of all, he ignored how quiet Aramis had become, even his sounds of pain more muted and less frequent. They’d rested again, this time against the base of a large tree, d’Artagnan barely able to help Aramis down before the man almost slipped from his grip.

 

The third and fourth hours were hazy, filled with nothing more than determination and pain, Aramis unable to offer anything more than a pitiful groan as his life slowly trickled away through the wounds in his side. d’Artagnan knew that when they stopped, he would be unable to get them moving again. His energy had been utterly sapped and his injured leg trembled beneath him with every step forward he forced it to take. The sun was sitting low in the sky and they would need to rest soon, but the Gascon had prayed they’d make it further than they had, at least far enough to reach the stream that he vaguely recalled from his memories of the area.

 

Another step forward had him stumbling, his right leg too uncoordinated to lift high enough in order to clear a twig that lay on the path beneath him, and he tripped, almost bringing both of them to the ground. He stopped, looking around and then deciding to head for the small copse of trees that sat off to the side, the bushes able to provide some meagre protection as night fell. He nearly sobbed in relief when he was able to release his burden, setting Aramis down on the ground and laying him flat on his back before collapsing beside him. d’Artagnan could feel the flutter of his heart as it tried to recover from the demands he’d placed on his body, his shirt soaked with sweat and stuck to the skin underneath his doublet. With trembling hands, he removed his outer layer, knowing that the evening temperatures would drop and he would do well not to be wearing damp clothes when they did.

 

As the leather doublet slipped off, he noted his missing shirtsleeve, its absence reminding him that his shirt was destined for a more valuable purpose other than warding off the nighttime chill. He pulled the garment off and hung it from a nearby branch to take advantage of the gentle breeze so the fabric would dry faster. Unable to put it off any longer, he turned his attention to the wounded man, Aramis lying exactly as d’Artagnan had positioned him on the soft grass. Placing a hand on his friend’s brow, the Gascon tried to wake the man. “Aramis, I need you to wake up for a bit. Open your eyes for me, Aramis.”

 

His words had little effect on the man and d’Artagnan could feel grateful only for the fact that the Spaniard’s forehead wasn’t overly warm. Sighing, he began to undo the belt around his friend’s waist, needing to check the wounds and confirm that they’d at least stopped bleeding. Without their supplies, that would be the extent of what he could for his friend and he swallowed thickly at his impotence.

 

When the thick leather at Aramis’ waist had been released, d’Artagnan pulled open the two halves of the man’s doublet, revealing the dark patch of red that stood out sharply against the contrast of the Spaniard’s white shirt. To the Gascon, the stain seemed significantly larger than it had been initially and he risked lifting the bandage on the front of the man’s body to find that blood still oozed from the wound. The hole had no doubt been unable to clot due to the continuous movement he’d forced Aramis into, and his friend was now exhausted from a combination of the forced march and significant blood loss as d’Artagnan was certain the exit hole on the Spaniard’s back was spilling blood just as quickly. He had no needle and thread at hand and packing the wound was a stopgap measure at best; the marksman’s best chance of survival would be to cauterize, a task that would require a heated blade.

 

Scrubbing a hand angrily through his lank hair at the fact that he would have to cause his friend such pain, d’Artagnan dug into the pouch at his hip, withdrawing the flint that he carried there, his hand closing tightly around it in relief that he at least had the means to start a fire. Pushing himself to his feet, he staggered a moment as his leg adjusted to having to bear his weight again, and he made a mental note to check his own wound once he’d dealt with Aramis’.

 

He shuffled around the area, collecting enough small brush and larger twigs to light a fire, and then cleared a small circle where he arranged his kindling. His hands shook as he picked up the flint and he stopped for a moment, forcing his hands to steady before he took up his task again. Within minutes, he had a respectable fire and had placed the blade of his main gauche into its heat. He sat next to the flames, his right leg outstretched in front of him while his hands encircled his bent left knee, providing him with some support as he nearly slumped over onto himself. The trek they’d undertaken, combined with the worry over the marksman’s health, had made him incredibly weary and he found himself wishing for time to pass more quickly so they could get the aid that Aramis so desperately needed.

 

When the steel of his dagger glowed red, d’Artagnan half-crawled his way back to the Spaniard’s side, making another attempt to wake the man before he applied the hot blade to his friend’s skin. Placing a hand lightly on the man’s chest, he gave a gentle shake as he said, “Aramis, please wake up. I need to take care of your wounds.” He waited several seconds but it was apparent that the Spaniard’s body was too overcome to comply. Exhaling loudly the Gascon bit his lip for a moment as he resolved to do what he had to in order to save the man’s life.

 

First, he ripped his now dry shirt into strips, folding some of the fabric into pads that would be placed against the sealed wounds. Next, he removed the bandage from the ball’s entry point before retrieving his hot blade from the fire. He waited several long moments for the dagger to lose its bright glow and then steeled himself with a steadying breath before placing a firm hand on Aramis’ chest and applying the knife to his friend’s skin. The reaction was almost instantaneous as the marksman’s eyes flew open, his body nearly jackknifing in his attempt to flee the pain that now pierced his side. Fortunately, he was weak enough that d’Artagnan managed to restrain him, shifting his body somewhat so that more of his weight rested on Aramis’ torso.

 

He counted slowly, wanting to make sure that the wound was properly sealed before removing the blade. By the time he did so, Aramis was panting with the pain, his eyes rolling sightlessly in his head as he tried to come to terms with the agony that now overwhelmed his senses. With a trembling hand, d’Artagnan replaced the knife into the fire and then rested a hand on the marksman’s cheek, sorrow pouring from every part of him at the pain he’d just caused. “Aramis, look at me.” The Gascon gently guided the man’s face toward him, hoping the Spaniard would be aware enough to focus. “Aramis, I’m sorry, I had to cauterize your wound.”

 

Swallowing thickly as his breathing slowed, Aramis slurred, “S’alright.”

 

d’Artagnan’s head dropped for a moment as he shook it; there was nothing right about what he’d just done but it would hopefully prolong his friend’s life enough for real help to arrive. He looked up again as Aramis’ hand flopped weakly in an attempt to grip his own; he caught it and looked back at the Spaniard as the man mumbled, “Done?”

 

The hopefulness of the tone had the Gascon nearly tearing up as he admitted, “No, I still have to close the exit wound on your back.”

 

Aramis’ nod was shaky and uncoordinated, but demonstrated that he was aware enough of what was still to come. Licking his dry lips he said, “Do it.”

 

d’Artagnan didn’t move, hating the idea of having to watch his friend’s skin burned closed once more. Aramis, seeming to sense his hesitation, forced his eyes to focus and meet the Gascon’s. “Do it,” he repeated, his tone soft and his expression understanding, already forgiving the young man for what he was about to do.

 

With a silent nod, d’Artagnan helped Aramis roll onto his left side, exposing the hole at his back. Shaky fingers removed the bloodied linen and d’Artagnan gripped Aramis’ shoulder tightly as he placed the hot blade. Although he was expecting the pain this time, the knowledge didn’t diminish its intensity and Aramis could not stop the low keening that burst forth from his throat as he waited endless seconds until the knife was removed. The Gascon’s eyes filled with moisture at the sound and he breathed out a sob of relief when he was done, flinging the knife away from him as though it was burning his skin instead of his friend’s.

 

By the time that he’d covered both wounds, Aramis was unconscious, having passed out while d’Artagnan was tending his back. It was a small mercy and the Gascon couldn’t help but hope the man didn’t wake until morning when he would be forced to walk again until their bodies gave out. Evening was falling quickly as the young man replaced Aramis’ doublet and belt, keeping the bandages in place against the marksman’s red and puckered skin.

 

When he’d finished, d’Artagnan struggled once more to his feet, collecting as much wood as he was able in order to keep their fire lit throughout the night. His last act was to re-bandage his own wound, the slice weeping continuously as his movements forced the cut open. He momentarily considered cauterizing it as well, but decided against it, needing to stay awake to care for Aramis, something he wasn’t certain he couldn’t accomplish if he burned the wound closed. Before he settled for the night, he pulled Aramis’ body closer to the fire, checking a last time that the man’s skin was neither too warm nor too cold, and then sat down next to him, placing a hand on Aramis’ chest as a physical reminder that the marksman still lived.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You found us,” he breathed out, the thready quality of his voice renewing his friends’ concerns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your continued support of this story and for the feedback you've shared via the comments. Hope you enjoy this next chapter!

d’Artagnan had tried his best to stay awake but found himself slumped over next to his friend, the fire nothing but cold ash after being left untended for too long. He shivered slightly at the coolness of the morning air, the leather against his skin sapping more warmth from him as it, too, had grown cold in the night air. With a start, he recalled the previous day’s events and pushed himself upright, a hand fumbling for Aramis’ throat to confirm that the Spaniard had survived the evening hours. When he felt the reassuring thrum beneath his fingertips, he released a loud exhale of relief, unable to accept the possibility that due to his negligence, the man might have died in his sleep.

 

Looking around with bleary eyes, d’Artagnan hugged his arms to himself and realized that their circumstances were no better this morning than they had been the day before. They were still miles from Paris, without any supplies, and their need for water was becoming dire, growing more critical with each minute that passed. His eyes drifted to Aramis and he noted the paleness of the man’s features and the shallow inhales, his breaths hitching as the pain from his wounds flared with each expansion of his chest. d’Artagnan pinched the bridge of his nose against the headache that had settled behind his eyes at some point, the throb only increasing as he contemplated what lay ahead of them.

 

From what he could see of his friend’s condition, the majority of the walking would depend on the Gascon’s ability to keep them upright and moving. While he wasn’t entirely certain how far they’d come, d’Artagnan believed they were within two or three hours of the stream he recalled; of course, that time estimate depended heavily upon the speed at which they travelled, something the young man was beginning to reassess as he contemplated the marksman’s poor condition. With a sigh, he fingered the bandage around his own wound, scowling at the red that had soaked through during the night. Allowing a grunt of frustration to escape, he pushed himself up on his good leg, slowly shifting some of his weight onto the injured limb and biting his lip at the spike of pain that shot up to his hip.

 

Limping heavily and reaching out to use the trunks of the larger trees around them, d’Artagnan scoured the ground for a large branch that he could use to support a portion of his weight. When he found one that was suitable, he took a few extra moments for his morning needs before settling down again at the Spaniard’s side. “Sorry, Aramis,” he muttered to himself as he reached a hand forward to gently shake the sleeping man. “Aramis, it’s morning. Time to wake up.”

 

It took nearly a minute of persistent effort on the Gascon’s part before the medic slowly prised open his heavy lids. He managed several slow blinks before his eyes threatened to close again and d’Artagnan gave him another gentle nudge to keep him awake. “Sorry, Aramis, but you need to stay awake. We have to get going.”

 

The marksman rolled his head toward the sound of his friend’s voice, licking his lips as he croaked, “d’Artagnan? Wha’ happened?”

 

The young man winced at the weak quality of his friend’s voice as he replied, “You were shot, remember? I need you to get up so we can start walking toward Paris.”

 

Aramis’ eyes drifted away and d’Artagnan was momentarily concerned that the man’s mind was too clouded to understand, but then the Spaniard gave a shaky nod, lifting a hand to be helped up. d’Artagnan placed his hand on the marksman’s chest for a moment as he scrambled to rise, “Just a second, Aramis.” The Gascon managed to stand, holding onto his walking stick with one hand and reaching down with the other to grasp the medic’s arm, heaving mightily and managing to get the man to his feet.

 

Aramis wavered dangerously once he was up, d’Artagnan immediately placing his shoulder under the man’s arm, holding him tightly around the waist as he waited for his friend to gain his equilibrium. “How are you feeling today?” he asked, observing how the marksman was swallowing with his eyes tightly closed.

 

It took several long moments before Aramis was able to reply, and when he did, his voice was low and breathless, “Been better.”

 

The Gascon bit his lip as guilt flared once more in his chest, blaming himself for the situation in which they now found themselves. “I know. I’m sorry, Aramis.”

 

The marksman’s head bobbed jerkily as he said, “Not your fault.”

 

Deciding not to expend their energy on arguing, d’Artagnan swallowed the response he wanted to offer and he asked instead, “Do you need help taking care of your morning needs?”

 

Aramis’ face split with a faint smile, his eyes still closed as he struggled to collect himself, “Why don’t you just help me over to a tree and I can manage the rest myself.”

 

d’Artagnan grinned shyly at the man’s reply, “Alright. Let me know when you’re ready to move.”

 

The Spaniard drew a deeper, steadying breath, stopping when he reached the point of discomfort, and he opened his eyes and gave a small nod, the young man beginning to slowly move them forward. d’Artagnan guided him to a tree and made sure Aramis was steady before retreating several steps to give him some semblance of privacy. As soon as the marksman was finished, the Gascon was back, guiding Aramis’ arm across his shoulder. Trying to adopt a positive tone, d’Artagnan guided them into motion as he explained, “There’s a stream not too far away from here.” He looked at the medic who gave a small nod, “We’ll stop there and slake our thirst.” Aramis was already tight-lipped as he kept his mouth closed against any sounds of pain. “Should be there in no time,” d’Artagnan finished, hoping his friend believed more of what he’d just said than he, himself did.

 

They trekked on in silence after that, neither man having the energy to spare for conversation, Aramis soon falling into a pain-induced fugue while the Gascon’s leg shook and stuttered with every agonizing step forward. It took half the day for them to find the stream the young man had remembered and, despite the amount of time it had taken, d’Artagnan knew it was well worth it. Neither of them had drunk anything in the past day and their wounds needed tending. He stood for a moment and examined the banks of the stream, leery about bringing Aramis to its edges lest the man slip in. Looking around, he settled instead on letting the Spaniard collapse bonelessly at the base of a large oak tree. His own descent to the ground wasn’t much more coordinated than his friend’s and he hissed quietly at the pull on his wound as the leg gave out beneath him.

 

They stayed there for several minutes as d’Artagnan caught his breath and gathered his strength, while Aramis was already unconscious or asleep from the trauma his body had suffered. d’Artagnan’s eyes drifted toward the stream and his mouth almost watered at the thought of the cool liquid less than twenty feet away from them. His thirst spiked in that moment and it was enough to force his tired body into movement, so he limped heavily to the bank of the stream. Settling at its edge, d’Artagnan cupped his hands and drank several mouthfuls of the cool, refreshing liquid, certain he’d never tasted anything as sweet. Guiltily, he looked back at his friend, knowing Aramis was nowhere near healthy enough to drink on his own and d’Artagnan would need to find a way to bring the water to him instead.

 

Struck by inspiration, the young man pulled out some of the few remaining scraps of cloth he’d saved from his shirt and he dipped a couple into the stream, shuffling back to his friend’s side as quickly as he was able before the precious liquid dripped away. “Aramis,” the Gascon coaxed, already placing the sodden material at his friend’s lips. “Open your mouth for me.”

 

Whether it was due to the pleading tone that colored d’Artagnan’s words or the Spaniard’s desperate need for water, his lips parted and the young man squeezed in as much as he could, trading the first cloth for the second when the first one ran dry. Aramis licked his lips, his eyes still half-closed as he whispered, “More?”

 

“I’ll get you more, Aramis,” d’Artagnan promised, patting his friend’s chest gently. “Just wait; I’ll be right back.”

 

The marksman didn’t answer and the Gascon wasted no time, immediately returning to the water to rewet the cloths, and then repeating the process a third and fourth time until his friend’s thirst had been soothed. The last time, he wet an additional cloth, settling down beside Aramis and beginning to undo the man’s doublet. “Aramis, I need to check your wounds.” The Spaniard hummed softly in what might have been understanding, but his eyes were closed once more and d’Artagnan knew his friend would probably sleep for as long as he was allowed. Regardless, the Gascon kept up a steady stream of conversation, explaining everything he was doing as he examined and washed both cauterized holes before re-bandaging them with the last of the linen from his shirt.

 

When he’d finished with Aramis, he turned his attention to his leg, the sharp throbbing reminding him that it had been far too long since he’d been injured and that he was at great risk of infection the longer the slice was left. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to his feet, sweat already breaking out at his hairline from repeatedly having to walk on the injured leg. He made it back to the stream, barely able to control his drop to the ground, and removed his soiled bandage with trembling fingers. He took one of the few remaining squares of linen and dipped it into the water, gently beginning to scrub at the edges of his wound and then progressively pushing harder as he moved toward its centre.

 

The process was agonizing, the skin red and inflamed, with each touch of the cloth sending jolts of pain through the limb and bringing tears to his eyes. No matter the agony, d’Artagnan knew he couldn’t stop until he’d done all he could to clean the wound and stave off infection; both their lives depended on him doing the job well. By the time he’d finished, he was trembling and covered in a cold sweat. He had two cloths remaining, one which he’d used to bring water to Aramis and one which had been used to clean his wound. Determining that he would need to keep the linen used to help Aramis drink, d’Artagnan wrung out the other piece as much as he could before binding it tightly around the cut in his thigh.

 

A glance at the sun showed him that it was already afternoon and, while he knew they should be moving, d’Artagnan couldn’t bring himself to disturb his friend. He reasoned instead that help would likely come for them the next day and, given their weakened states, it would be smartest for them to remain where they were, at least having access to water while they waited. He had no idea what the others would think of his decision and, for a moment, wished for Athos’ words of wisdom to guide him, but there was only him; Aramis was barely aware, even when awake, so d’Artagnan would have to trust his best judgement. With one last supreme effort, the Gascon made his way back to Aramis’ side, checked his pulse and breathing, and then slumped against the tree, closing his eyes as he succumbed to his own exhaustion. 

* * *

It was only early afternoon, but Athos had been pacing near the garrison gates for nearly an hour, Porthos having refrained from doing the same, but watching his friend from where he sat at their table, sharpening his main gauche. They’d spent the night before together at the tavern and turned in early, both feeling unsettled by the absence of their friend. In truth, Porthos had felt a pang of loss at the lack of d’Artagnan’s presence as well, but he’d kept those feelings to himself.

 

When they’d reported for morning muster, the Captain seemed to sense their disquiet and he’d kept the two men at the garrison to train. Both had been grateful for the consideration Treville had offered, certain that Aramis and d’Artagnan would return well before dinnertime because they missed their comrades as well. When the mid-day meal passed and then Serge began making preparations for dinner, Athos could no longer pretend to focus on training. Instead, his feet had moved almost of their own volition as he tried to bleed off some of the anxiety that had him practically jumping at every horse that approached the garrison gates.

 

Treville observed the pair from above, having come out onto the balcony some while back, having expected Aramis and d’Artagnan to return early as well. That they were not yet back was not really cause for concern, but his misgivings from the prior day had not gone away and had, if anything, grown worse with each hour that passed. Finally, unable to watch Athos pace any longer, he called down to the two men to get their attention. Both looked up in surprise, Athos stopping his feet as he focused on the Captain, “You’re wearing a hole in the ground, Athos. Why don’t you take your horses and go meet them.”

 

A quick flash of relief showed on Athos’ face before his usual, stoic expression returned, but it was enough for Treville to know that his lieutenant appreciated the gesture and understood what had remained unsaid. _“Go find Aramis and satisfy yourselves that he’s alright.”_ The two men made short work of saddling their horses and were exiting the garrison barely a half hour after receiving their orders. They might have been quicker had Athos not insisted on a detour to Aramis’ room to fetch the man’s medical supplies, something that had Porthos’ eyebrow rising questioningly. “Always best to be prepared,” Athos had replied, unwilling to say anything further on the matter.

 

They rode in silence, keeping as quick a pace as possible, both driven by the need to see the two men healthy and safe. When an hour passed and then quickly turned into two, the men’s anxiety increased, both understanding that they should have met up with Aramis and d’Artagnan by now. The third hour had both men’s jaws aching from how tightly they were clenched and by the fourth hour, they were both certain that something had befallen the two missing men.

 

Porthos finally broke the quiet that had settled around them like a thick blanket, “Something’s wrong.” Athos offered only a grunt in reply, having already reached the same conclusion but unwilling to voice it. “Ride until it’s dark and then set out first thing in the morning?” Porthos continued. Athos gave a sharp nod, his concentration on the road ahead of them as he reined in the fear that made him want to spur his horse into a gallop so he might find the two men more quickly.

They rode until the sun disappeared from the sky, finding a somewhat sheltered spot where they made their camp for the night. Dinner consisted of some salted pork and hard cheese that Porthos had had the foresight to pack, along with one of Athos’ ever present bottles of wine. As they laid under the stars, wrapped in their blankets, Porthos asked, “Any chance we might ‘ave missed them somewhere on the road?”

 

“Doubtful,” Athos replied. He wanted just as badly as Porthos to believe in an explanation that didn’t have the two missing men injured or lost, but was unable to convince himself that the reason for the men’s absence was quite so innocent.

 

“We’ll find them tomorrow,” Porthos stated with certainty.

 

“Yes, we will,” Athos agreed, the only question remaining being what condition the two would be in when they were found.

 

The two Musketeers spent a restless night, their dreams plagued by worries over the missing men, and they were on the road again at first light. They moved quickly until they approached the stream, the only water source close to the road that ran between Paris and the Abbey. Porthos motioned in the direction of the running water as he said, “They’d need water; we should check it out.”

 

Athos gave a dip of his head in agreement and they guided their horses to the edge of the stream, slackening their reins to allow the animals to drink. From atop their mounts, both looked around for any sign of Aramis or the Gascon. When the horses had drunk their fill, the men guided them away from the water’s edge and Porthos pointed to the right. “I’ll check in that direction.” Athos nodded as he turned his horse and moved the opposite way.

 

Both men kept their horses to a walk, not wanting to miss anything. Within minutes, Porthos was whistling loudly for Athos, the older man pulling up sharply on the reins and turning his horse to follow the other man’s path. When he arrived, Porthos was already on the ground, bending over something on the ground. Athos’ heartrate spiked with adrenaline at what he might find and he found himself jumping down from his horse and running to cross the distance to Porthos’ side.

 

Aramis lay closest to Porthos, the marksman’s face incredibly pale and the only signs of life were the uneven shifts of his ribcage as he slowly inhaled and exhaled. Porthos had his hands on the man’s cheek and shoulder and was speaking to him, trying to get him to wake. A couple feet away, with his head and shoulders leaning against the tree trunk, was d’Artagnan. He was still as well, but the sheen of sweat and the flush of his cheeks told Athos that the young man was also alive.

 

Athos clamped down ruthlessly on the emotions that threatened to escape, but Porthos had no such compunction, asking as he tried to rouse their friend, “What in God’s name happened to you?” Athos positioned himself at Aramis’ other side, knowing that he should likely check on the Gascon but unable to tear himself away from the Spaniard. His hand drifted to the man’s matted curls, carding through his friend’s tangled hair, thinking absently how upset the medic would be when he awoke to see the state of his locks.

 

Porthos’ hand moved downwards to rub along the marksman’s sternum, something he’d seen Aramis do in the past when others were unwilling to rouse. The uncomfortable sensation pulled a groan from the medic’s chest and the large man persisted by repeating the action as he spoke, “Come on, Aramis. You’ve got Athos worried. Open your eyes for me.”

 

Athos pursed his lips in irritation at the comment but his eyes remained glued to Aramis’ face, waiting for the moment when the man would wake. Another low moan accompanied a fluttering of eyelids as the two men were graced with their first view of Aramis’ glazed orbs. His lips parted but no sound was heard and Porthos stood to retrieve a water skin from his horse, puzzled by the men’s missing horses and supplies, a detail he’d noticed moments after spotting the two lying on the ground.

 

Athos raised the Spaniard’s head slightly as Porthos tipped the water to their friend’s mouth, allowing a few sips before pulling it away. The moisture seemed to revive Aramis and he focused on the men’s faces above him. “You found us,” he breathed out, the thready quality of his voice renewing his friends’ concerns. “d’Artagnan said you would.”

 

Athos frowned at the odd statement but Porthos didn’t seem fazed by it and was more concerned with his friend’s health. “Aramis, what happened? Where are you hurt?”

 

The marksman’s right hand lifted momentarily from the ground as he pointed to his side, “Shot.” Swallowing thickly he added, “They stole everything we had.”

 

Trading nervous looks, Porthos and Athos worked to undo Aramis’ belt and doublet, revealing the large stain of red on his shirt. Athos lifted the hem of the garment to expose the bandage that sat underneath, lifting it carefully to look at the reddened wound it hid. Sighing deeply, he removed the bandage altogether so Porthos could see, the larger man’s eyes widening in recognition, “It’s been cauterized.”

 

Athos gave a tired nod, “The only option without supplies.”

 

Porthos cringed at the thought of the pain that cauterization would have caused, glancing toward the Gascon as he said, “That was right smart of the lad.”

 

Athos was now probing underneath Aramis’ back, causing the medic to wince and confirming that the ball which had penetrated their friend’s body had travelled all the way through. “Aramis, do you remember how long ago you were hurt?”

 

The Spaniard blinked heavily, his energy clearly flagging. “Two days?” he answered uncertainly, his eyes closing after he’d spoken.

 

Porthos let a soft curse escape his lips, his eyes flaring with anger, “That would mean they never made it to the Abbey.”

 

Athos gave a tilt of his head as he motioned toward the Gascon. “We’d better see what our young friend has done to himself and then be on our way back to Paris.”

 

Porthos’ lips evened into a thin line that told Athos how unhappy he was with the situation, but he turned and crouched at the young man’s side while the older man redressed Aramis’ wounds. “d’Artagnan, lad, wake up,” Porthos ordered, unable to keep the displeasure from his tone at the fact that this mission had been undertaken at d’Artagnan’s request. Shaking the young man’s shoulder, he spoke again, “Come on, whelp, the time for sleepin’ is over.”

 

d’Artagnan could hear someone talking to him but the voice was fuzzy and indistinct, his head filled with wool and his head hot with fever. As someone shook him, he groaned with displeasure and managed to prop his eyes open to see a large man over top of him. The sight startled him and he scrambled backwards for a moment, only to bump into the tree at his back and reawaken the throb in his leg. Slipping sideways, he curled forward, reaching a hand toward his aching limb, his hand caught by someone before he could touch it.

 

“Hold on there, I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Porthos said as he clasped the boy’s hand.

 

Turning his head toward the voice, d’Artagnan squinted, forcing his eyes to focus, “Porthos?”

 

“Aye, you two seem to have found some trouble,” the large man stated, releasing the Gascon’s hand and moving to remove the dirty bandage around the young man’s thigh.

 

Slowly, d’Artagnan’s brain caught up and he rolled out of Porthos’ grasp, turning toward Aramis, “Is he alright?”

 

Porthos lifted an eyebrow as he observed the look of panic on the boy’s face, “Alright? No; but he will be once we get him back.”

 

The Gascon seemed to deflate, rolling onto his back and letting the Musketeer unbind his wound. “What happened to you?” Porthos asked as he worked.

 

“We were attacked,” d’Artagnan explained, his voice hitching as the large man poured water over the cut in his leg. “Aramis was shot and I couldn’t stop them.” His eyes dipped as he admitted, “They took everything we had.”

 

Porthos hummed, the story filling in some of the gaps surrounding their missing belongings and how they’d come to be wounded. “At least you were close to water,” he commented as he pulled clean bandages from the bag Athos had brought over, folding a square of linen to press against the weeping wound.

 

d’Artagnan shook his head, “No, we walked. Made it here yesterday.”

 

Porthos looked up sharply as he paused in his ministrations, “You walked?”

 

The Gascon nodded, “We needed water and couldn’t wait for help to arrive.”

 

Porthos returned his attention to the young man’s leg, wrapping another length of linen around the bandage he’d placed. “What happened after you got here?”

 

d’Artagnan bit his lip for a moment against the pain of having his leg wrapped and then answered, “I cleaned Aramis’ wounds as well as I could and made him drink.” His eyes fell to the ground as he confessed, “I think I passed out at some point. Sorry.”

 

The large man nodded slowly, considering the boy’s words as he glanced at Athos, the older man listening just as intently. Gathering their supplies, Porthos stood as he said, “We’ll talk more once we’re home. Right now, the priority is to get back to Paris.” The words seemed to stir them into motion and within minutes their saddlebags were repacked, and the men were mounted, Aramis in front of Porthos, while d’Artagnan was seated behind Athos. Keeping the horses to a walk, they began their journey home.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Athos,” Aramis breathed out, the word both a plea and a question to which the older man simply shook his head, his shoulders slumping in defeat. The marksman gave a nod of acknowledgement, setting down his things and sitting in a chair as he deflated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how this chapter ended up so long, but it's the lengthiest one so far in this story and includes another look at present day events. Enjoy!

Athos observed Porthos who had Aramis wrapped carefully in his arms, ensuring that the marksman was safely ensconced in front of him where he could feel the reassuring thump of the medic’s heart against his own chest as the injured man leaned up against him. The older Musketeer felt a pang of envy at Porthos’ position, wanting the same assurances that their friend was doing well, but unable to ask the large man to switch places with him. He knew the depth of the bond that existed between the two men and, while it in no way diminished the one between himself and Aramis, he understood that Porthos needed the physical reminder that Aramis was alive.

 

Against his own back was the body of the Gascon. The young man had held himself rather stiffly at first, keeping a separation between the two of them, but as time had passed, d’Artagnan had begun to slump forward, resting some of his weight on the Musketeer. The sensation had initially been an uncomfortable one for Athos. Not one for displays of physical affection, he’d found the touch of the young man’s body disquieting and had turned introspectively into himself to wonder why. This was, after all, not the first time that he’d shared his mount with an injured comrade, and he’d never been bothered by the proximity of a brother in need before, but the Gascon’s presence was different.

 

True, d’Artagnan wasn’t their brother-in-arms and it was entirely possible that he might never attain that position, but Athos was certain that he possessed enough compassion for his fellow man that the boy’s status should not influence his reaction. They hadn’t been in each other’s company for very long, only a few months, and yet, during that time, they’d experienced some fairly intense events which typically drew men toward one another rather than apart, so the duration of their acquaintance shouldn’t matter either. Perhaps it was the fact that the young man had drawn Aramis into trouble by requesting that the Captain send the two of them on a mission. This explanation seemed the most plausible out of all the reasons he’d considered, but even it felt false to him, and as he searched his heart, he felt no malice toward the boy for doing what he’d thought best in order to help a friend.

 

It surprised him to realize that d’Artagnan had acted out of friendship toward Aramis, a label that he hadn’t yet come to terms with when considering his own relationship with the Gascon. Would Aramis, or even Porthos agree and reciprocate in calling the young man their friend? If Porthos’ reaction was anything to go by, Athos sensed the answer was no, the larger man seeming more angry than relieved at the discovery of the two men by the stream. Then what was it that made him ill at ease about the warm body that was even now weighing more heavily upon his back?

 

Pushing the question aside he glanced again at Porthos and Aramis, the two of them riding a few feet ahead of him. The large man was bending forward somewhat, apparently saying something to his friend, suggesting that Aramis was awake or at least partially aware. The sight reminded him of the times when he and his brother, Thomas, had shared a horse, Athos sitting behind his younger sibling so the boy wouldn’t fall. They’d ridden in that fashion multiple times as Thomas had been learning how to ride, Athos considering it both his duty as the older brother and his pleasure to teach the young man and keep him safe. On other occasions, he’d held Thomas when the boy was too weary to stay in the saddle, and it was not unusual for the boy to fall asleep in his arms, an act, Athos thought, that represented the absolute trust that Thomas had in his older brother.

 

The memory jarred him from his reflections as he recognized the similarity between his past and the current situation, the Gascon behind him reminding him far too closely of his younger brother. The realization made Athos’ adrenaline surge as he told himself that no one could take Thomas’ place, least of all d’Artagnan who he hardly knew. He was alright with the idea of maintaining a cordial relationship with the boy, training with him on occasion and offering advice in order to improve his skills, but anything more was firmly out of the question. If anyone was to be as close to him as his lost family, Porthos and Aramis deserved that place and had, in fact, become as close as any brothers born of the same blood; to consider that d’Artagnan could usurp their or Thomas’ place in his heart was absurd.

 

A moan from behind him had Athos quashing his thoughts, still shaken by the possibilities that his mind had conjured. He held his breath for a moment, listening intently as he waited to see if the sound would be repeated and, several seconds later, it was. Turning his head, Athos said, “d’Artagnan, are you alright?” There was no answer although the young man seemed to melt further into the Musketeer. Holding his reins in one hand, Athos reached around to give the young man’s uninjured leg a squeeze as he tried again, “d’Artagnan, are you awake?” Still there was no response and the older man urged his horse into a faster pace, pulling alongside Porthos.

 

Looking over at his friend, Athos asked, “Can you tell if d’Artagnan’s alright?”

 

Porthos looked over, his eyes narrowing in concern as he took in the limp form of the Gascon, his chest and face pressed into Athos’ back, his cheeks flushed with fever. Reaching a hand over, the larger man felt the heat coming off the young man’s brow and shook his head, “I’d guess that wound’s infected. He didn’t look too good earlier and he just seems to be getting worse.”

 

Athos gave a nod of understanding, looking at the road ahead of them and calculating the remaining distance to Paris. As if sensing the older man’s thoughts, Porthos spoke, “It’s still another four hours but I think we need to keep going. The garrison’s the best place to see to their wounds.”

 

The older man had already come to the same conclusion as he spurred his horse to move a little faster, “Then we’d best make haste before their conditions deteriorate any further.”

 

Ultimately, Athos ended up stopping to switch places with the insensate Gascon, too concerned that the young man would fall off the horse as they urged the animals to move faster. The heat that rolled off the young man drove them to set a quick pace and they managed to cut their travel time down to just over three hours instead of the estimated four. When they passed through the garrison gates, there was a moment of indecision as Athos considered whether to take d’Artagnan to the Bonacieux residence, but he knew that Aramis would be upset if they couldn’t confirm the Gascon’s health when he awoke.

 

Treville had obviously been awaiting their return and was in the courtyard by the time they’d come to a stop, the stable boy already waiting to take their horses. With a motion of his hand, the Captain had two additional men at his side to help with their injured. Peering up at Athos, he questioned, “What happened?”

 

“I’m not yet certain of all the details but they were attacked and lost everything they had.” The older man glanced in Aramis’ direction before turning his attention back to his commander. “Aramis was shot and d’Artagnan has a deep cut along his thigh.”

 

Treville nodded, the preliminary report enough to satisfy his curiosity, “You’re taking them to the infirmary?”

 

Athos hesitated, the indecision so unlike the man that the Captain’s eyebrow rose in concern. Seeing the expression on Treville’s face, the older man replied, “I think Aramis would be more comfortable in his own room. Besides, there’s not much a physician can do for him now.”

 

“Alright,” the Captain agreed slowly, trusting his lieutenant’s judgement. He stayed quiet and watched as Athos lowered the unconscious Gascon to the two waiting Musketeers, dismounting afterwards and ordering the men to take the young man to the infirmary to have his leg tended. Then, the older man turned and moved to Porthos’ side, taking Aramis’ weight as the large man lowered their injured friend into his arms. The stable boy moved off with the two horses and Treville remained in the courtyard, observing Porthos and Athos moving in one direction with their friend while the other two Musketeers made for the infirmary with their burden. It was unexpected to say the least, the Captain having anticipated that the four would remain together; perhaps he’d underestimated the growing bonds between the foursome.

* * *

Aramis had been stripped down to his braies and settled between the cool sheets of his bed after his brothers had tenderly washed the dirt and blood from his body. He’d roused briefly when the wet cloths had touched his skin but was still weak and somewhat disoriented, the heat from his cauterized wounds indicating a brewing infection. Porthos had wiped both spots carefully and gratefully taken the honey that Athos had fetched from Serge, covering both patches of red skin to ease the pain and hopefully stave off infection. Clean linen had then been applied loosely around the man’s waist before he was plied with broth and a pain draught to help him sleep.

 

Athos and Porthos now sat at the Spaniard’s side, each having taken a chair next to the bed and watching the sleeping man as if he might otherwise disappear again. The large man leaned back in his chair, his own weariness asserting itself as he scrubbed his hands across his face and exhaled loudly. The room was quiet, almost too much so, he and Athos having tended to their friend in near silence, while both had been lost in their own thoughts. Now that the initial rush of caring for Aramis had ended, Porthos found his mind drifting to the Gascon, feeling oddly unsettled by the boy’s absence. Seeing the sullen expression on Athos’ face, he said, “Maybe one of us should check on the boy.”

 

The older man gave a low hum in reply but made no attempt to move, his eyes firmly on Aramis’ face which was finally relaxed in sleep. “Not sure if we should be mad at him for what he did or grateful that he had the good sense to cauterize the wounds and find water,” Porthos stated, hoping to draw Athos into conversation.

 

Athos’ hand drifted to the bridge of his nose, his fingers resting there for a moment, indicating the headache that he suffered. Dropping the hand to his lap seconds later he said, “I find myself somewhat confused by recent events as well.”

 

Porthos snorted, the reply typical of the older man’s penchant for understatement. “Either way, Aramis will wanna know he’s alright.”

 

The older man gave a weary nod and rose, raising a hand to stay Porthos’ movement, “I’ll go. I should probably try to get more information from him anyway so I can report to the Captain.”

 

Porthos tucked his chair in closer to Aramis’ bed before lifting his feet up to rest them on the end of the mattress while Athos left to check on the Gascon. Athos was surprised to find the infirmary empty except for the one bed occupied by the young man. It was apparent that he’d been cared for, his face and hands having been washed and his dirty clothes removed. Carefully, Athos lifted the edge of the blanket that covered the boy, seeing the thick wad of bandages that encompassed his thigh beneath his braies. A sound from behind made him startle, dropping the blanket and turning toward the door to see the garrison physician entering. The man joined him at d’Artagnan’s side, explaining as he did so, “I cleaned and stitched the cut but it’s already infected. The wound will need to be washed and re-bandaged regularly and he’ll need plenty to drink.”

 

Having given his instructions the physician turned away, collecting his bag and loading it with an assortment of supplies. Athos observed the man’s actions and asked, “Where are you going?”

 

The man continued to pack as he replied, “There was an attack on a village about a day’s ride from Paris. The Captain just received word and offered my assistance with the injured since they don’t have a doctor. I should be back in a few days.”

 

Athos’ brow furrowed as he looked back at the young man on the bed, “What of d’Artagnan?”

 

Now it was the doctor’s turn to frown but he recovered quickly as he realized his mistake in assuming this man would care for his patient, “I’ll ask the Captain to have someone check in on him several times each day. Would be best if he had someone with him on a more regular basis, of course, but needs must.” He turned his back on the older Musketeer to finish gathering his things, his mind working through the mental checklist of the supplies he’d need.

 

Athos turned back to the young man, noting the sheen of sweat that covered his face and the pinched expression he wore, suggesting a level of discomfort that not even sleep could remove. The physician was leaving and yet the man had indicated that d’Artagnan needed a higher level of care than he was likely to receive if left in the infirmary. The situation presented a quandary and while Athos knew the answer, he was hesitant to accept it. _“Athos,”_ Aramis’ smooth voice drawled in his head, _“we cannot turn our backs on someone in need.”_ The older man closed his eyes for a moment, frustration welling at the sound of his conscience which had taken on the medic’s voice. _“Athos, there is no decision here. You already know what you must do so stop acting so childishly and do it.”_

 

Opening his eyes, he gritted his teeth for a moment before turning to speak with the physician, “Doctor, can I assume that it’s safe to move him?” The man looked confused for a moment but nodded. “Then I’ll make arrangements to have him taken to another room where he can be tended.” The doctor seemed pleased if his relieved smile was anything to go by and Athos wondered what Porthos would think of his decision.

 

 

Porthos was surprised when a cot was brought into Aramis’ room, the men carrying it closely followed by Athos who carried blankets and a pillow in his arms. The large man raised a questioning eyebrow at him and Athos sighed but waited until the men departed before depositing the items on the bed as he started to prepare it for its occupant. “The physician is leaving and will be gone for several days,” he explained as he shook the blanket out. “d’Artagnan’s wound is infected and Treville has us off duty. It makes no sense to spare additional resources to care for the boy when we are already caring for Aramis.” Athos plumped the pillow and placed it at the head of the cot.

 

Behind him Porthos was considering Athos’ words, not wholly unhappy with the decision to move the Gascon into the room, but somewhat surprised at the fact that the older man had been the one to suggest it. Before he had an opportunity to say anything, the door was pushed open again and d’Artagnan was brought in, hanging limply between two Musketeers. Porthos followed them over to the cot, noting the paleness of the young man’s features and how his face was screwed up with pain, a low moan coming from him as he was placed on the bed. Athos gave the men a nod of thanks, flipping the blanket over d’Artagnan’s still body and pulling it up to his chest.

 

Athos and Porthos stood shoulder to shoulder staring at the young man, the latter leaning closer to his friend to whisper, “He looks bad.” The older man dipped his head in reply, thinking the same and wondering how it came to be that the more minor of the two wounds had become the graver of the two. As Athos reached for a chair and positioned it next to the boy’s bed, Porthos said, “You stayin’ up for a while?” Again, the older man gave quiet nod. Sighing, the large man stated, “I’ll go get us somethin’ to eat and then we can take turns watchin’ over them.” Athos’ lips quirked slightly at the resignation in his friend’s voice, both of them knowing that they would end up staying in the room until their friend was better; no, until both men were better, he corrected himself, realizing that he’d made them both responsible for the boy’s welfare when he’d removed him from the infirmary.

 

The first night and day following their return was the worst, the Gascon sweating with the heat of his fever but shivering as though he were buried in snow, his body unable to either regulate its temperature or comprehend the mixed messages his brain was receiving. Throughout it all, Athos and Porthos resolutely poured water down his throat, their fingers rubbing gently along his gullet to make him swallow, and bathed him repeatedly in cool water. The wound on his leg began to seep less noxious smelling pus and d’Artagnan settled into a more restful sleep, marked by less tossing and turning, and the mumbled words that had been evident during the worst of his delirium.

 

Aramis was unaware of most everything that had transpired, his body exhausted, dehydrated and weakened by the amount of blood he’d lost; his first twenty-four hours were marked by short periods of wakefulness when he was urged to consume broth or something for his pain, before falling back asleep. As d’Artagnan’s body began to cool on the eve of their second night, his eyes fluttered open and he blinked owlishly at the unfamiliar ceiling above him. His tongue licked at dry and cracked lips, his body reminding him that he’d consumed far too little liquid in comparison to what he’d sweated out. His entire body ached but the majority of the pain centred on his right leg, his thigh practically pulsing with each beat of his heart. Unable to stop himself, he moaned lowly at the sensation, gaining the attention of the large Musketeer currently seated beside his cot.

 

“Finally awake?” a voice asked, and the Gascon rolled his head to the side to identify its owner.

 

“P’thos?” he slurred.

 

Porthos smiled at being recognized as he poured water into a cup and then raised the boy’s head so he could drink. d’Artagnan fairly gulped at the liquid and the Musketeer pulled it away after only a few swallows, earning him a groan of displeasure. “You can have more in a bit; let’s take it slow and make sure it stays down first.”

 

Peering up at the larger man, the Gascon breathed out, “What happened?”

 

The smile from earlier slipped and Porthos’ expression grew serious as he glanced toward Aramis’ bed and then back at the young man, “You and Aramis were attacked on your way to the abbey. As near as we can tell, you patched Aramis up and walked several hours until you found water, which is where Athos and I found you. We got back last night and you’ve been pretty sick because your wound got infected.” d’Artagnan’s hand moved to touch his thigh but the large man caught it with a shake of his head. “Best leave that alone for now.”

 

The Gascon gave a small nod as he looked around at what he could see of the room, “Aramis?”

 

The smile from before returned, even more broadly as Porthos stated, “He’s doing well; mostly just tired but he should be fine.”

 

“Good,” d’Artagnan whispered.

 

“We’ve been wonderin’, Athos and I,” Porthos began, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. “Why did you cauterize his wounds and not yours?”

 

The Gascon’s tongue wet his dry lips again and the Musketeer helped him take another drink before he replied, “The men who attacked us took all of our supplies. I did the best I could to bandage his wounds with fabric from my shirt but it wasn’t enough. By the time we stopped that first night, he’d lost so much blood.” d’Artagnan paused as he looked off into the distance, obviously remembering the amount of red that had stained Aramis’ clothes. “Cauterizing was all I could think of so he would survive long enough for help to arrive. He passed out the second time…” he trailed off, thinking to himself _thank God_. Taking a steadying breath he finished, “I knew I couldn’t stay awake to take care of him if I cauterized my wound so I bound it as tightly as I could and hoped it would be enough.”

 

The boy’s expression was a mixture of guilt and remorse, clearly feeling badly about the situation in which they’d found themselves and he now rolled his head away, unable to meet Porthos’ gaze. For his part, the large man was still uncertain about how he felt about the young man, his actions having nearly cost Aramis his life but also, ironically, saving it.

 

He was spared from having to comment by a voice from across the room, Aramis apparently awake and needing to offer his input. “d’Artagnan,” he called and the boy turned his head toward the medic, still unable to see him through the larger man’s bulk. Porthos moved aside, looking toward Aramis as the marksman met the young man’s eyes. “Thank you. You saved my life and cauterizing my wounds was ingenious under the circumstances.”

 

The Gascon seemed to blush at the Spaniard’s words and he began to shake his head. “No, d’Artagnan, you will hear me out without argument. What happened was not your fault and whether I want to admit it or not, I needed to get away from the garrison for a while.” Aramis paused as he gathered his thoughts, “After Marsac, things were difficult and I had thought myself once again unworthy of living when so many others had died. This mission reminded me that I still have a purpose to fulfill and brothers who would miss me if I were gone.” Porthos smiled fondly at the man’s comment, agreeing wholeheartedly that he could not imagine his life without the marksman at his side.

 

“d’Artagnan, you may not be one of us by name, but you have proven you deserve a place at our sides and I would be honored to one day call you brother,” Aramis finished, satisfied that he’d had his chance to speak.

 

The room fell silent as Porthos raised an eyebrow at Aramis, the medic returning his gaze steadily and giving a slow, firm nod. The large man’s expression shifted to one of acceptance, willing to allow the marksman his opinion about the young man even though he might not share it.

 

The Gascon for his part was stunned speechless as he looked from one man to the other, but neither gave any further indication of their thoughts and he finally gave a small dip of his head and then turned away. His energy was deserting him and he gladly allowed his eyes to close, welcoming the excuse to leave the awkwardness of the moment behind. He could hear quiet footfalls and then the murmuring of voices and guessed that Porthos had moved to the medic’s side so they could converse. As he began to drift toward sleep he realized with a pleasant jolt that Aramis’ words had warmed him and that, incredibly, he felt the same way toward the man whose life he’d managed to save. 

* * *

_ Present day: _

 

It had been hours since Athos’ departure and Aramis could no longer contain his anxious pacing, moving fretfully across the front room of the farmhouse they’d commandeered for their purposes. The longer it took for him to return, the longer it would take before they could hand their charge over to their reinforcements, delaying them further from searching for d’Artagnan. As he crossed the room once again, he recalled his first mission after Marsac’s death - the first time he’d realized that the young man was becoming as dear to him as his other brothers-in-arms.

 

In the days that had followed their rescue, Aramis had learned the full details of d’Artagnan’s sacrifice. How the boy had protected him from their attackers after he’d been shot, an occurrence that he admitted later was completely his fault as he’d been too distracted to remain alert to their surroundings; the many miles they’d crossed with d’Artagnan bearing the brunt of his weight, all the while also burdened by his own wound and guilt over the marksman’s injury; how the young man had put aside his own welfare, choosing to leave his wound open, rather than risk passing out, so that he could stay aware and tend to the medic. His actions were those of a Musketeer and Aramis had been confident that the young man would one day earn his commission and join their brotherhood.

 

Of course, he’d forgotten in that moment about the dangers that accompanied the life of a soldier, a fact that was glaringly obvious now that the young man had been taken from them. None of them had willingly left d’Artagnan behind, but their duty bound them to protect the Queen’s cousin; it was a treasonous thought, but Aramis would have much rather stayed at his brother’s side, leaving the lady’s fate to chance. Instead, he’d been forced to his horse, staying protectively between the woman and the bandits, watching as d’Artagnan battled valiantly against overwhelming odds to buy them the time they needed to make good their escape. Even as they’d turned and ridden away, he could hear the sounds of battle as steel clashed against steel. They’d disappeared from sight, leaving d’Artagnan’s destiny in his hands, praying that the man would survive long enough for them to be reunited.

 

Once they’d found their current refuge, paying the farmer and his wife handsomely for permission to stay, Porthos had travelled back to where they’d been ambushed, bringing back the young man’s sword and confirming the lack of a body. The news had nearly made them weep with relief, the only logical explanation being that their attackers had taken d’Artagnan, allowing them hope that they could still rescue the boy. He had little doubt, however, about the Gascon’s treatment, recalling well the instances of his own imprisonment by their enemies; fortunately, he also understood the young man’s strength and knew that d’Artagnan would do everything within his power to stay alive until they came for him.

 

It was well past midnight when Aramis’ keen eyes spotted approaching riders, moving his harquebus immediately into place on the window ledge as he hissed Porthos’ name, the large man sitting a few feet away asleep in a chair. He came awake immediately, smoothly rising from his seat and coming to Aramis’ side, a pistol ready in his hand as he sidled up to the other side of the window. He stayed pressed against the wall, lest he present himself as a target for some eager sharpshooter as he asked, “Can you tell who it is?”

 

Aramis gave a short shake of his head, eyes continually scanning their surroundings while waiting for the horses to come nearer so he could discern their details. Releasing a huff of air, he breathed out a single word as the faint light of the moon illuminated a familiar face, “Athos.”

 

Next to him, Porthos relaxed as well, moving toward the door and waiting for Aramis’ signal to open it. Moments later, he unbarred the door, pulling it open to allow Athos and six others entrance into the dimly lit interior. Athos gave both men a quick nod in greeting, silently conveying his relief at their continued wellbeing, the two friends’ expressions matching his own.

 

“The Lady is asleep in a back room,” Aramis explained, already beginning to gather his belongings in preparation to depart.

 

Athos stepped forward, placing a hand on the marksman’s arm to stay his movements. Aramis stopped and looked up from what he was doing, his eyes asking an unspoken question. “Aramis, we’ll wait here until morning,” the older Musketeer stated.

 

The medic looked aghast, glancing toward Porthos who wore a similarly resigned expression to Athos. “It’s too dark for us to track them,” Athos explained, clearly just as distraught as his friends at having to leave d’Artagnan in his captors’ hands.

 

“Athos,” Aramis breathed out, the word both a plea and a question to which the older man simply shook his head, his shoulders slumping in defeat. The marksman gave a nod of acknowledgement, setting down his things and sitting in a chair as he deflated. d’Artagnan, their brother, would need to survive a few more hours until they could rescue him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The medic cleaned up after his ministrations before settling down in a chair at his friend’s side, feeling Porthos’ absence keenly as he began his solitary vigil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great comments about the boys' interactions in the last chapter. Hope you enjoy this next one!

_ Months earlier: _

 

The celebration for Porthos’ birthday was wild and exciting, beyond anything d’Artagnan had ever experienced growing up in Lupiac. Of particular note was the large man’s ability to shoot a melon from atop his friend’s head, a feat that the Gascon was informed was only possible when Porthos was drunk. The revelation stunned the young man but, like so many other things he’d learned about the trio, he shook his head in amazement and filed the piece of information away as he continued to collect enough tidbits so he might eventually piece together the confusing puzzle that was the Inseparables.

 

The morning after had been as difficult as he’d expected, too many men suffering sore heads and fragile stomachs from their overindulgence. As such, it had taken some time for the three to realize that Porthos was missing from the garrison, the news reaching them soon afterwards that the man had been arrested and accused of causing someone’s death. Aramis’ and Athos’ reactions had been predictable, the two men outraged and staunchly in support of their friend, declaring that Porthos was unequivocally innocent.

 

d’Artagnan was not nearly as confident, not knowing the large man as well as the other two, and wondering at the possibility that Porthos might have accidently hurt the man while drunk. As soon as the words passed his lips, the Gascon found himself pressed against the wagon at his back, his face full of fuming and indignant Aramis as the marksman stated simply, “It’s Porthos.” Apparently that was explanation enough and d’Artagnan gave a shaky nod in reply, the marksman finding his response sufficiently satisfactory to release him; it was, however, not enough to gain him forgiveness and the two men stalked off to prove Porthos innocent, giving the Gascon the distinct impression that he should stay behind.

 

d’Artagnan was momentarily torn between following them, believing that he should do what he could to assist the men, regardless of what the evidence might suggest, while at the same time still stinging from the harsh glares he’d received from the two. Pulling in a deep breath, his attention was diverted from the retreating Musketeers by the arrival of Milady, the woman standing across the square from him with a serious expression on her face, her gaze firmly fixed in his direction. Sighing, d’Artagnan sauntered over to the woman, Milady’s lips turning up in a smile at his approach. He dipped his head to her in greeting, “Milady, you’re looking well.”

 

She gave a nod in return, her smile growing larger for a moment before fading away as she took his arm and began leading him down the street, “I understand your friend has encountered some _difficulties_.” d’Artagnan looked at her sharply and his feet stuttered, but she pulled on his hand and kept them moving. “Do you believe him to be guilty?” Milady asked, keeping her tone light.

 

The Gascon gave a slight shrug as he replied, “I don’t really know him that well. Athos and Aramis seem certain of his innocence though.”

 

Milady fanned herself against the heat of the day as she said, “From what I understand, Porthos had a less-than-ideal upbringing, somehow managing to claw his way out of the Court of Miracles and secure the King’s Commission.” d’Artagnan remained silent although his brow furrowed at what he was hearing, not familiar with the man’s past. “What if I told you that I have proof of his guilt?”

 

“Do you?” he questioned, his eyes narrowing at her as if trying to discern the truth of her words.

 

“Would you share this evidence and have your friend convicted of murder?” Milady pressed, making the Gascon’s eyes flare with anger.

 

“I would do the right thing,” d’Artagnan confirmed. “If Porthos is guilty, he must face the consequences of his actions.” Lifting his chin defiantly, he stated, “No man is above the law.”

 

The woman on his arm gave a thoughtful nod as she pursed her lips, “There is a witness to Porthos’ actions. I can arrange for you to meet with him.”

 

The Gascon’s brow furrowed as he asked, “Why doesn’t this person simply report what they saw to the authorities?”

 

Milady’s shrug was nonchalant as she explained, “He seems afraid of retribution but he trusts me and anyone I introduce to him. If you want to see justice done, you’ll have to hear his story for yourself.”

 

d’Artagnan came to a stop, the woman remaining at his side as she waited for his reply. Athos and Aramis would not thank him for his interference, especially if it resulted in proving Porthos’ guilt, but regardless of the outcome, the evidence had to be investigated and the truth revealed. Besides, he reasoned, it was the duty of a Musketeer to uphold the law, regardless of where that path might lead.

 

Milady seemed to sense the shift in the Gascon’s mood and her pouty smile returned as she said, “I’ll arrange a meeting for the two of you and send word to the Bonacieux house when he’s ready to see you.”

 

The young man gave a short nod as the woman moved away from his side, d’Artagnan watching her until she disappeared from sight, melting into the crowds that surged through the busy Parisian street. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, wondering if he’d made the right choice, but resigning himself to the course of action he’d committed to as he made his way home to wait for Milady’s message. 

* * *

The Cardinal and Milady met near a row of high hedges in the garden at Notre Dame, the spot protected enough to protect them from prying eyes. “Well,” the Cardinal asked impatiently.

 

“It’s being taken care of,” Milady assured with quiet confidence.

 

“If the Musketeers find out about my plan to destroy the Court of Miracles, they’ll inform the King. As much as it pains me to admit it, his Majesty would take umbrage to my approach regardless of the outcome,” Richelieu sighed in frustration.

 

The woman reached across to touch his arm lightly, the Cardinal’s eyes flicking toward her hand momentarily before she hastily withdrew it. “You must trust me,” she calmly advised. “I have planted the seed of doubt and will have them too busy fighting amongst themselves to discover your plans.”

 

“The boy is not even a Musketeer; what makes you think he can convince the others,” Richelieu countered, a sour expression on his face.

 

“He does not need to,” Milady replied. “He needs only to slow them enough to allow time for your plans to come to a successful conclusion.”

 

The Cardinal’s mouth was a thin line but he gave a short nod, apparently satisfied that the woman’s strategy would work. Seeing that she’d managed to convince him, she pressed on, “I need one of your men.”

 

Richelieu’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he asked, “For what purpose?”

 

Milady smiled sweetly as she explained, “He is to be my witness to Porthos’ murderous act so I’ll need someone more convincing than one of your regular buffoons.”

 

The Cardinal looked displeased with the description but acquiesced to her request, “Very well. What are your instructions?”

 

“Have him meet me at the back of the tavern in the Rue Vignon at sunset,” she replied. “I’ll handle it from there.” With a last provocative smile, she turned, her skirts swishing around her ankles as she moved quickly away, her mind already on the next step of her plan. 

* * *

d’Artagnan had been unable to stay in his room for long, Aramis tracking him down and informing him that they needed to go to the Wren while Athos entered the Court of Miracles in search of their friend. As they walked toward the tavern where Porthos had ended his night of drinking, the Gascon asked, “Why didn’t you tell me that Porthos grew up in the Court?”

 

Aramis threw a hasty look in his direction, searching his mind for any information he might have shared about their friend’s past but coming up empty-handed. He shrugged as he said, “Where Porthos grew up is unimportant. What _is_ important is that he is a good man who has been falsely accused of murder.” At that, the marksman looked warily at the young man, but d’Artagnan kept his face expressionless, unwilling to let his companion know that he still harboured doubts.

 

“Do you think it was his old friends from the Court who staged his escape?” the Gascon continued as he wove around a cart that had abruptly stopped in the middle of the street.

 

The comment made Aramis’ eyes narrow as he countered, “What makes you think this was an escape and not a kidnapping?”

 

d’Artagnan shrugged but didn’t answer and the two continued on in silence. Their trip to the Wren was followed by a visit to the morgue, a place that was most disquieting for the Gascon and he couldn’t wait to leave. While Aramis kept the undertaker occupied with conversation, the young man managed to slip a key and timepiece from the dead man’s effects into his doublet, believing it to be an important clue to their investigation.

 

While they were being treated to the foul smell of decomposing flesh, Athos was making his way into the Court of Miracles. He’d shed his hat and covered himself with threadbare cloak, needing the disguise to make his way through streets filled with a population of beggars and thieves who didn’t take kindly to anyone associated with the King.

 

His subterfuge was discovered before he’d travelled very far and he found himself face to face with Charon, held in place by two of the man’s thugs, their beefy hands wrapped firmly around his biceps. On another day, Athos might have fought against the men in his bid to reach Porthos, but he was alone and outnumbered in the Court and would have many streets to travel before exiting it again, leaving far too many opportunities for retribution. Instead, Athos steeled himself for the conversation ahead, determined to negotiate his way into speaking with their missing friend. “I’m looking for Porthos,” he stated, meeting the other man’s gaze unflinchingly.

 

Charon paced slowly from side to side as he considered the man in front of him. While their captive was unfamiliar to him, it was obvious that this was one of Porthos’ friends from the Musketeers, the bearing impossible to hide no matter the clothing that covered him. “Porthos doesn’t want to see you,” Charon stated, watching the man’s reaction with care.

 

Athos’ eyes narrowed but he kept his tone low and even, “Perhaps we should let him decide.” Charon began to shake his head and the Musketeer interjected, “Is Porthos your prisoner?”

 

“No,” Charon denied immediately, his body language turning defensive.

 

“Then I repeat my earlier request that we allow him to decide whether or not to see me,” Athos countered, preparing to defend himself if he should need to.

 

Charon seemed to contemplate the entreaty for a moment before reaching a decision, his actions confident as he nodded to the two men at Athos’ sides. The Musketeer had only a moment’s notice before the man on his right swung a heavy wooden club at his head. Athos had caught the motion from the corner of his eye and was already moving away when it connected, somewhat lessening its impact, but it was still enough to send him staggering to his knees, barely keeping himself upright with a hand thrown against the wall beside him.

 

His attackers moved forward swiftly, one landing two painful kicks to his left side while the other brought his weapon to bear once more, the wood this time cracking loudly against Athos’ upper back and shoulders, pushing him forward again onto his hands and knees. Dazed, he tried desperately to shake his head in an effort to clear it, but his body was already failing him, the first blow to his skull keeping him from being able to rise. A last strike of the wooden staff to his lower back had him gasping in pain before a kick that impacted with his temple had him falling, darkness settling around him before his cheek touched the dirt of the ground.

 

“Drop him at the edge of the Court,” Charon ordered, observing the Musketeer’s still body dispassionately. He would never have Porthos’ support if he killed this man, but a strong message needed to be sent to others who might try to follow in his footsteps. He would leave the Musketeer alive; whether he recovered sufficiently to make his way home was up to him and Charon would think on him no further. Turning away, he just caught a glimpse of the two men heaving the insensate body between them as they moved to carry out their orders.

 

Awareness returned in painful increments, teasing him with its nearness before dancing away once more and leaving him to fall back into the black. How many times he repeated the cycle of partial consciousness only for it to slip from his grasp, he knew not, only vaguely remembering having attempted to wake several times before finally managing it. When his eyes eventually stayed open, he looked blearily at the odd sight that greeted him, taking several minutes to comprehend that he was lying on his left side on the ground. With a groan, he managed to move his right arm, pushing against it to lift his upper body, the change in elevation making him sway despite the fact that he’d barely managed to raise his shoulders off the dirty cobblestones. With sheer determination, he pushed harder and found himself sitting against a wall, blinking against the dark spots that threatened to overcome him.

 

Breathing heavily for several long moments, his vision slowly cleared and he recognized that he was in an alleyway, although his mind was too clouded to identify exactly where in the city he might be. His confrontation with Charon came back in odd, disjointed pieces and another moan escaped him as he recalled the beating he’d taken at the thugs’ hands. He had no idea how long ago he’d been dumped in the dirty street, but the light around him was already dimming, harkening the coming evening which meant that Aramis would be expecting him back.

 

With a hand against the wall at his back, Athos managed to get his feet underneath him, steadying himself once he was upright while the world around him tilted and swayed. With one hand still on the wall, he reached upwards with his other to probe a tender spot at the back of his head, wincing at the slight tackiness he found there, indicating that the skin had been broken. The site was tender to his touch and he winced at the renewed throb of his skull, moving his hand away shakily in an effort to dull the pain. With a determined sigh, he moved away from the wall, satisfied that he was able to remain upright and that the ground was only moving marginally beneath his feet, allowing him to walk unaided and mostly in a straight line.

 

With each step, his various aches awakened, making him painfully aware of the throb in his side and back, his fragile skull threatening to rattle apart with each strike of his feet. It would be a long walk back, he realized, and yet there was no other choice; he needed to return to the garrison to share what little information he had gleaned, and they had to find proof of Porthos’ innocence before the man was found by the Red Guards. Forcing the pain of his body away, Athos focused on placing one foot in front of the other, gladdened when he came across a street that he recognized and was able to adjust his path to make his way toward the garrison.

 

His journey might have taken several minutes or an hour, but Athos had no idea which it was, his attention narrowing to the painful haze that seem to have descended over his mind. He’d only made it a couple steps through the garrison gates before his forward motion was unexpectedly stopped, his upper arms seized by another. “Athos, what happened?” a concerned voice asked, and Athos squinted at the man in front of him, finally making out Aramis’ shape.

 

He began to shake his head and then hissed in pain as he stopped, his head reminding him of its previous poor treatment. “Charon was unhappy about my presence in the Court,” he said, his voice low in deference to his aching skull.

 

If he’d been able to see clearly, Athos was certain he would have seen the worried look on Aramis’ face, the man no doubt already cataloguing the few symptoms he’d seen as he evaluated his condition. To the medic’s credit, he didn’t ask any more questions, simply beginning to guide the man toward the infirmary. It took Athos a few moments to realize their destination and he stopped abruptly when he figured it out, wincing in pain as the suddenness of the movement jarred his head. “Athos, what is it?” Aramis asked, beginning to wonder if his friend had been hurt worse than he’d thought.

 

“My rooms,” Athos managed, rapidly losing the ability to speak coherently as the pain in his head flared, his vision periodically whitening out as he tried to stay standing. Aramis didn’t move and the older man sensed his hesitation, but he knew, as well, that he would rest far easier at his apartments. “Please,” he added, guessing correctly that his plea would be enough to sway the man.

 

“Alright,” Aramis agreed, already turning them around. “But you’ll stay in bed until I’m satisfied that you’re fit enough to be up.” Athos didn’t protest the medic’s stipulations, wanting nothing more than a soft bed and to close his eyes until the ache in his head had receded. The walk to Athos’ rooms was completed in a daze and the older man was unaware of anything more than the continued movement of his feet, the steadying presence at his side keeping them on track and safe. They stopped twice for Athos to empty his stomach and the older man knew he would never have accomplished the journey without his friend’s help; at that realization, he felt a pang of guilt at the fact that he’d unintentionally forced the medic into the challenging position of having to wait before he could tend to his latest patient.

 

Aramis managed to guide his badly tilting friend up the stairs to his room, Athos’ balance getting increasingly worse the further that they’d travelled; the medic had to bite his lip against the words that threatened to burst forth, reprimanding his friend for his folly at convincing him to leave the garrison grounds. He released a breath of relief when he was able to deposit the older man on his bed, Athos’ eyes nearly closed as he began to list dangerously to one side. “No, Athos,” Aramis said, catching the man and preventing his descent. “I need to get you out of your doublet and shirt and check your head before you can lay down.”

 

Athos offered a soft grunt of dissatisfaction but did his best to remain upright as Aramis cautiously removed his hand from his friend’s arm and stood to collect a bowl of water and clean cloths. When he returned, the medic set the items down on a small table and turned his attention to the older man’s clothing, deftly unfastening the clasps that held the doublet closed and sliding it from Athos’ shoulders.

 

The injured man could not contain a wince and low hiss as he gently arched his back to allow the leather garment to slip free; Aramis frowned at the reaction but kept silent, moving on to pull his friend’s shirt free from his breeches. “Can you lift your arms?” Aramis asked, pitching his voice low in deference to the man’s aching head. Athos responded by lifting his arms carefully, this time prepared for the pull across his shoulders and able to contain his sounds of pain.

 

The medic pulled the white shirt free, revealing the older man’s torso, one side darkened with bruising. “Athos,” Aramis’ hand landed on his friend’s shoulder to get his attention. “I need to check your ribs.” Sighing, Athos gave a small dip of his head in acknowledgement, already having guessed what lay ahead of him. The medic took care pressing against each of the bruised ribs, eliciting nothing more than a deep frown from the older man, and Aramis was content that nothing had been broken.

 

“I need to clean your head next, Athos,” the medic explained, hands already reaching for the bowl of water and cloths he’d prepared earlier. The older man closed his eyes and readied himself to feel the sting of the water at the back of his head, pulling back abruptly when the wet cloth landed on his temple instead. Aramis retracted his had immediately, speaking lowly, “Sorry, sorry.” Athos blinked at him blearily in confusion and the medic realized that his friend didn’t know about the cut at his temple, which had left a lazy trail of blood down the side of his face. “I need to clean the blood off your face,” Aramis stated, motioning with the cloth that was now tinged with red.

 

Athos released a breath and forced himself to relax, allowing his eyes to slip closed as the medic scrubbed at the dried blood, revealing the inch-long split skin just below the hairline. Peering at it closely, Aramis murmured to himself, “It should heal without stitches.”

 

Not wanting to startle his friend again, Aramis spoke as he stood, “I’m going to check the rest of your head now.” Athos held still, remembering idly the tacky patch he’d felt and how the throb in his skull had escalated when he’d touched it. Moments later, Aramis found the tender spot and the older man inhaled sharply as he felt fingers pressing against it. “Sorry,” the medic repeated as he removed his hand, reaching for the wet cloth instead so he could wash away the blood. “I had to be sure there were no soft spots.”

 

By the time that Athos was gently lowered to his mattress, he could no longer think or see clearly, the aches in his body all clambering for attention. He knew that Aramis had discovered the head injuries he’d suffered, as well as tsking over the bruising on his flank, shoulders and lower back, all of which were likely spectacularly discoloured. Athos cared little about this right now, beginning to swallow convulsively as the toll of his head wounds made his fragile stomach roil, bile rising threateningly in his throat.

 

Aramis must have sensed the change and had swiftly but carefully helped Athos lay down, wiping his face with a cool cloth until the nausea passed. “Do you think can drink anything?” the medic asked, still seeing the slight tinge of green on his friend’s face. Athos’ only reply was a slightly deeper exhale and Aramis knew his friend was succumbing to sleep. “Rest, my friend,” he said, one hand on the man’s blanket-covered shoulder. “I’ll be waking you several times tonight, so you should sleep while you can.” With those words, the medic cleaned up after his ministrations before settling down in a chair at his friend’s side, feeling Porthos’ absence keenly as he began his solitary vigil.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gascon bit his lower lip as he nodded, his mind already imagining how he would handle any future meetings with Milady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great reactions to the last chapter and to everyone who has been commenting and leaving kudos. Hope you enjoy this next bit!

It was after dinner by the time that d’Artagnan retreated to his room at the Bonacieux house. Aramis had returned to the garrison to wait for Athos and the Gascon had decided not to stay, expecting word from Milady; he found himself too anxious to sit with the marksman, lest the man become curious about the nervousness that plagued him as he wondered what he might discover after speaking with the woman’s witness. It was difficult for him to imagine the gregarious, kind-hearted Musketeer killing someone, but he knew well that men did strange things when under the influence of too much alcohol. When he’d appeared at the house, Constance had offered to make him something to eat but he’d declined, needing to escape into the solitude of his room. He’d sat for a time, mending some clothes, but soon found himself too full of nervous energy to do a good job, and he put the items away, beginning to pace.

 

When Milady’s message arrived, d’Artagnan heard the knock at the main door through his open window and was moving even before Constance managed to reach his room; he hastily gave her a nod of thanks as he left the house, intending to read the letter outside. The message was short and unmistakably written by Milady, her distinct scent wafting up from the parchment paper as he fanned it slowly in front of his face while he considered his destination. She’d directed him to a tavern on the Rue Vignon and told him to come immediately. As he moved in the direction he needed to go, his footsteps momentarily stuttered as he considered detouring to the garrison to collect Aramis; he decided against it seconds later as he recalled the marksman’s violent reaction to the suggestion that Porthos might be guilty.

 

As he walked, his mind churned and he had to ruthlessly push away the strong sense of guilt at the thought that he might be betraying Porthos, as well as the other two Musketeers, by pursuing the information Milady had offered him. Several times, he nearly stopped and turned around, but his strong desire for justice prompted him back into motion as he reasoned that the truth must be found, regardless of the outcome.

 

Could he live with the consequences he wondered to himself, for the first time considering the cost he might incur if his investigation proved the large man’s guilt. He’d been enjoying the company of the three men and, after his perilous mission with Aramis, had felt a sense of belonging that had eluded him for many months following his father’s passing. While he was still somewhat uncertain of his place with the other two men, he’d felt their willingness to share of their knowledge so he might improve his skills, and found himself allowed, if not always encouraged, to be in their company during their off-duty hours.

 

Despite their sometimes lukewarm reception to his presence, d’Artagnan knew he would miss the men if things were to turn out badly, and it was a foregone conclusion that if he were to prove Porthos’ guilt, Aramis and Athos would never forgive his betrayal. As a result of his ruminations, the Gascon was practically tied up in knots by the time he’d reached the tavern, and he looked around furtively before ducking through the doorway that led to its seedy interior. The shabby establishment surprised him, having expected that Milady would have picked a locale that was more suited to her expensive tastes, and he wove his way carefully through the throngs of drunken customers, eyes darting around to catch any glimpse of the woman.

 

When he saw no sign of her, he sighed deeply and found a spot near the back, leaning against a heavy wooden beam and crossing his arms as he contemplated what to do next. The blade at his side caught him unaware as did the alcohol soaked breath that hissed in his ear, as a man at his back ordered him to move and he was bodily pushed toward a doorway several steps away. Biding his time, d’Artagnan did as he’d been told, keeping his hands carefully away from his weapons and listening intently for any clues to his aggressor’s identity. Receiving a push as he crossed the threshold into a smaller back room, d’Artagnan stumbled for a moment before catching himself and turning to glare angrily at the man who’d shoved him.

 

“d’Artagnan,” a voice stopped him in mid-movement, and he turned back again to see Milady stepping out of a shadowed corner. “Calm yourself. This is Montagne; he saw what happened the other night outside the Wren.”

 

The Gascon gave a small tilt of his head in understanding and directed his attention to the man, noting that he’d kept his dagger in his hand and seemed ready to use it if necessary. “Tell me what you saw, Monsieur,” d’Artagnan directed the man.

 

With a quick glance in Milady’s direction, Montagne returned his gaze to the young man as he warily asked, “You’ll make sure he’s punished?”

 

d'Artagnan crossed his arms and adopted what he hoped was an intimidating stance as he narrowed his eyes and repeated, “Tell me what you saw.”

 

Another cautious look at Milady and the Gascon could see the woman’s short nod from the corner of his eye. “The big Musketeer, he’d been drinking and bragging,” Montagne started, looking momentarily at his feet before raising his head to continue. “A lot. I was surprised he could still stand. The man he killed got tired of hearing the Musketeer’s claims and dared him to prove his skill. The Musketeer refused and kept drinking. When the man who’d challenged him got up and left, the Musketeer followed.”

 

Montagne stopped again as if collecting his thoughts. “I’m not sure why, but I trailed after them. It was very late by then and the streets were deserted, but they didn’t go far before the Musketeer challenged the man to make good on his earlier taunts.” He shook his head, a look of despair crossing his face as he explained, “The shot wasn’t even close and seconds later the man was dead, the Musketeer passing out right after.”

 

d’Artagnan peered at the man, taking several steadying breaths as he prepared to ask the question he dreaded, “You’re certain it was the Musketeer Porthos who shot this man?”

 

With a quick nod, Montagne replied, “As certain as I am of the two of you standin’ in front of me.”

 

“Very well,” the Gascon nodded, “you may need to give testimony.” His tone at the end was questioning and he waited for confirmation from the man that he would comply, but Milady neatly interjected.

 

“d’Artagnan, surely this places things in a different light. Porthos has already been accused and found guilty; the important thing now is to find him and return him for punishment.”

 

The Gascon closed his eyes for a moment, doing his best not to shudder at the fate to which he would be condemning the man. When he opened them again, Montagne was slipping from the room and he took a step forward only to be stopped by Milady’s hand on his arm. “Let him go,” she whispered.

 

He exhaled slowly and nodded, his head hanging with the weight of what he’d discovered. Porthos was guilty; he’d been undoubtedly drunk and goaded by the dead man, but he was still responsible for ending the man’s life. d’Artagnan now faced an impossible choice: pursue Porthos on his own and find a way to bring him back, or convince Athos and Aramis of Porthos’ guilt and secure their assistance. Both options seemed unimaginable and the Gascon felt inexplicably older than his actual years as the burden of responsibility settled on him. 

* * *

Athos had woken a couple times during the night and Aramis was there to soothe him each time, using a salve of witch hazel to relieve the pain of his friend’s bruising and holding him up when the man’s stomach rebelled. When the first rays of dawn broke through the dusty window pane of Athos’ room, the marksman stood and stretched stiff muscles, yawning widely at the few hours of uncomfortable sleep he’d managed at his friend’s bedside.

 

Stepping over to the window, Aramis looked at the activity on the street below, Paris beginning to awaken as the first early-rising residents scurried around to begin their day. Pressing his fingers into red-rimmed eyes the medic wondered if d’Artagnan had fared any better than they had or if all of them were destined to endure a series restless nights until Porthos was reunited with them.

 

The thought caught Aramis off-guard and he wondered when, exactly, he’d come to believe that d’Artagnan would care for them as strongly as they cared for one another. He knew that his own feelings toward the Gascon had changed after the mission they’d been on following Marsac’s death, and he’d simply assumed that the relationship between the young man and the other two was the same as what he now experienced. Granted, d’Artagnan had asked about the possibility of Porthos’ guilt, but Aramis was willing to forgive him that lapse in judgement, trusting that with time, the Gascon would come to know the large Musketeer as well as he and Athos did, at which point, all doubts would be erased from his mind.

 

Stifling a yawn, Aramis scrubbed a hand through his matted curls and turned to look at his still sleeping friend. Athos was a very private man and his gruff exterior was often difficult for newcomers to penetrate, but the Gascon had seemed to have less difficulty than most. While the older man could in no way be described as being overly attached to d’Artagnan, neither was he distant and cold toward the boy, holding him at arm’s length the way he did most other recruits and even the majority of their fellow Musketeers. Porthos should be the easier one of the two to convince, he thought, the large man always having a heart that was as big as the man himself, welcoming and friendly almost to a fault unless he was crossed, but even he seemed to occasionally hold part of himself back from the young man.

 

As Aramis remembered back to their early days with the Gascon, he recalled that Porthos was always more willing than Athos to teach the boy and interested in his continued wellbeing, seeming happy to have another person around with whom to drink and share stories. Granted, the large man had been less than impressed when the two of them had nearly died after being attacked by horse thieves, but Aramis felt that the large man had forgiven d’Artagnan for his part and accepted that without the young man’s diligence, the marksman would have died before aid had arrived. Another wide yawn caught Aramis unaware and his jaw popped as it expanded to allow its escape.

 

“Did you manage any sleep last night?” a rough voice asked from the bed.

 

“Athos,” Aramis rushed over, a grin on his face. “You’re awake.”

 

Normally the obviousness of the marksman’s statement would have been commented upon by the older man, but it was clear that Athos was still feeling poorly. Taking a seat in the chair next to his friend’s bed, the medic asked, “How are you feeling?”

 

Athos considered his friend’s question as he took stock of himself, feeling the dull but manageable ache of his upper body and the more vocal protests of his throbbing skull. Deciding that a pain draught would be required if he was to be mobile enough to participate in the search for Porthos, he offered a truthful reply, “I’m sore but it’s my head that’s threatening to keep me in this bed.”

 

Aramis nodded knowingly, already reaching for a cup he’d prepared earlier. He helped Athos sit up higher in the bed, allowing him to lean his upper back against the wall, and then handed him the draught. The older man winced as his sore shoulders made contact with the wall behind him, but his hand was steady as took the proffered cup and quickly drained it. “Thank you,” Athos breathed out, letting his eyes slip closed as he waited for the medicine to take effect.

 

“Want to tell me what happened?” Aramis asked, not really expecting that his friend would deny him.

 

The older man let out a deeper exhale that tested the range of his tender ribs as he explained, “Charon discovered my attempt to locate and speak with Porthos. He’s apparently alright, by the way,” he paused and opened his eyes for a moment, seeing the relief on Aramis’ face. Keeping his lids partly open, he continued, “They wouldn’t let me see him though, and I suspect that the treatment I received was a warning to others to stay away.”

 

Aramis grunted unhappily at what he’d heard, standing up and beginning to slowly pace in frustration at the knowledge of Porthos’ whereabouts but their inability to reach him. “Do you think we should try again?”

 

Athos gave a minute shake of his head, still careful of its ache, “There must be some reason for everything that’s happened thus far. I think it best that we turn our investigation to the motive for our dead man’s murder and see if that leads anywhere useful.”

 

Aramis worried his lower lip but he knew the older man’s suggestion was sound; still, he could not help but chafe at the knowledge that Porthos was somewhere within the Court of Miracles and remained out of their grasp.   

* * *

d'Artagnan's sleep had been just as poor as Aramis’, possibly even more so as he’d tossed and turned for several hours before finally resigning himself to get out of bed, his mind unwilling to settle as he continued to doubt his course of action. It was not too late yet, he reasoned, and he still had the option of walking away from the information he’d been given, turning his attention instead to helping the others locate Porthos and working with them to prove the man’s innocence. It was even possible, he considered, that the men would come across the same details that he’d discovered, releasing him from the solitary burden of being the one among them who would be responsible for condemning the large Musketeer to death.

 

He scrubbed a hand across his face angrily, his eyes burning with the lack rest he’d had, his heart pounding too quickly as he wrestled with the enormity of his decision. The previous night he’d been steadfast in his choice and had been prepared to deal with the consequences of his actions, but a night alone in his room with nothing more than worry for company had served to change his perspective and he could no longer claim to be resolute in his determination to bring Porthos to justice. Every fibre of his being longed to find a logical explanation for the events that Montagne had recounted, but if one existed, it seemed to elude his exhausted brain.

 

For a moment, he considered sharing what he’d been told with Aramis and Athos, hoping that they might point out something that he’d missed, but he discarded the idea almost immediately, still feeling the weight of the marksman’s arm across his chest as he’d reacted to d’Artagnan’s suggestion that Porthos might have been the cause of their victim’s demise. In that instant, he’d recanted what he’d been thinking, leading the other two to believe that he supported Porthos’ innocence as strongly as they did, but the truth was that the kernel of doubt that had existed had merely bloomed with Milady’s information and it was now taking root in a way that made it impossible to ignore. And yet, if he withheld the witness’ description of events, they might come to light anyway, placing the two Musketeers into the untenable position of having to suddenly refute information of which they were unaware.

 

This last thought gave d’Artagnan the justification he needed to share what he’d learned, rationalizing that he could explain away his reasons for pursuing the line of inquiry as merely another aspect of their larger investigation; after all, it was not his fault that what he’d learned damned Porthos rather than exonerating him. Decision made, he swiftly washed his face and neck, pulling damp hands through his lanky hair in an effort to tidy it. Donning a clean shirt was quickly followed by his boots, having pulled his breeches on hours ago when he’d given up on sleep. His doublet and weapons completed his ensemble and he strode quickly from the room, determined to share what he’d discovered with Aramis and Athos in the hope that they would see something he hadn’t. 

* * *

The Gascon was seated at their usual table and Athos felt a mild stirring of irritation at the boy’s presence, still feeling the aches of his various bruises and the pain making him short-tempered. Aramis seemed pleased to find the boy already waiting for them and Athos swallowed the harsh words that lingered on his tongue, recognizing that his foul mood was due more to the beating he’d suffered than anything the young man had done. The marksman gave Athos a gentle push toward the table, motioning with his head toward the kitchen and indicating his intention to get them both something to eat. The older man gave a low grunt in reply but continued to the table, easing himself down carefully to sit across from the Gascon.

 

d’Artagnan had been watching him approach and his eyes narrowed with curiosity at Athos’ stiff movements. As soon as the older man was settled, he asked, “Are you alright?”

 

“Fine,” Athos replied curtly, unprepared to discuss his ills while Porthos’ life hung in the balance.

 

The young man seemed unperturbed by the response, impatient to share his own news as his head swivelled toward the kitchen in an effort to seek Aramis out among the other men gathered there. “If you say so,” he grumbled quietly under his breath, earning a scowl from the older man.

 

They sat in silence for several minutes until Aramis reappeared, setting down a large plate of food in between them, and motioning to both men to help themselves. As he sat, the marksman noticed at once the tension that seemed to hang between the two men and, since he already knew the reason for Athos’ poor mood, he cast a critical eye over the Gascon. d’Artagnan’s eyes were red and the dark smudges underneath them only accentuated how tired he looked. His brow was furrowed and despite the blanket of fatigue that seemed to hang over the boy, his body was taut with nervous energy. Deciding to get straight to the point, he said nonchalantly, “Athos was caught and beaten yesterday in the Court. How was your night?”

 

The effect was instantaneous and d’Artagnan’s expression shifted immediately to one of concern for the older Musketeer. Looking at Athos incredulously, the young man demanded, “What happened?”

 

Athos gave the marksman a look of disgust, having been satisfied to keep that part of the story to himself, but it was clearly not to be as the Gascon stared at him expectantly. “I ran into Charon and a couple of his men. It seemed they took offense to my presence and decided to teach me a lesson.”

 

“Are you alright?” d’Artagnan pressed, the fire in his eyes not diminishing at all.

 

Athos waved a hand dismissively but Aramis was unwilling to let the man walk into danger without the Gascon knowing the full extent of his injuries. “It’s bruises mostly and while they’ll pain him for a while, they’ll heal. It’s his head that we need to pay attention to.” Aramis’ focus was now solely on d’Artagnan as he explained, “Watch him for any spells of dizziness or nausea that indicate he’s getting worse instead of better.”

 

The Gascon was nodding solemnly and Athos would have rolled his eyes if he didn’t think the act would bring on one of the medic’s aforementioned signs. “Before Athos was escorted from the Court, he managed to find out that Porthos is there and doing well,” Aramis continued, noting the slight easing of tension in the young man’s shoulders. “Now, what kept you up last night?”

 

d’Artagnan’s head jerked up in surprise, looking from one man to the other, but neither gave anything away, returning his gaze calmly as they waited for him to speak. Swallowing against a suddenly dry throat he began, “I found some evidence last night.” The two men looked at him expectantly as he paused. “It…rather…there was a witness to what happened outside the Wren.” He swallowed again, already seeing the hope rising in Aramis’ eyes and knowing that what he would say next would dash it.

 

“The witness, he said that the dead man was goading Porthos into showing off his skills and he eventually agreed at the end of the night.” The words were getting harder now and d’Artagnan’s hands twisted in his lap, looking downwards as he was unable to meet the two men’s gazes as he said, “The witness watched Porthos shoot and kill that man.”

 

“How did you happen upon this witness?” Athos’ voice was toneless as he posed the question.

 

“I…” he stumbled once more over his words. “It was the woman I met on my first night in Paris. She found me after Porthos’ escape outside the Chatelet and told me she knew someone with important information about that night.”

 

Silence reigned for several long seconds and the Gascon was afraid to look up, worried at how the two would react. When he could bear it no longer, he drew a deep breath and lifted his eyes, seeing a perfectly composed Athos sitting next to a slightly smirking Aramis. “What?” he stammered in confusion at the men’s expressions.

 

“Didn’t it strike you as the least bit odd that this woman would approach you immediately after Porthos was accused and spirited away?” the marksman asked, amusement shining in his eyes.

 

d’Artagnan’s face was still puzzled and he turned his gaze to Athos for help. “This woman,” the older Musketeer began. “You know her well?”

 

“No, hardly at all,” the Gascon replied, thinking on the night they’d spent together followed by his discovery of a bloodied dagger in his bed.

 

“But you trust her?” Athos continued, seeing the hesitant expression on the boy’s face and nodding in satisfaction when d’Artagnan shook his head. “Then it behooves us to wonder about her intentions in introducing you to the sole witness to this man’s death, don’t you think?”

 

The Gascon’s expression was beginning to shift, some of the worry lines from earlier fading as he asked, “You think she’s lying?”

 

Aramis offered a mirthless smile, now unimpressed that there could be another unknown person working against them in their quest to prove Porthos’ innocence, and he offered a slight shrug, “It seems a very convenient happenstance that she sought you out, especially since you are not even a Musketeer.” d’Artagnan bristled slightly at the last comment but didn’t argue, his mind consumed with the mysterious woman and the possibility that he’d been fooled by her once more.

 

“This witness, he is willing to come forward and give testimony?” Athos asked, already confident that he knew what the answer would be; the Gascon’s shaking head confirmed it. “Then our plans continue as before. We need to investigate our victim and find out what possible motives exist for wanting him dead.” Aramis was already nodding in agreement as the older man turned his attention fully on the boy. “d’Artagnan, do not voice any of your doubts if approached by this woman again and simply assure her that you are doing everything in your power to ensure Porthos is brought to justice. Hopefully that will satisfy her long enough for us to clear his name.”

 

The Gascon bit his lower lip as he nodded, his mind already imagining how he would handle any future meetings with Milady.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two men stared at him in silence as the Gascon abruptly stood from his chair, knocking it over in the process as he staggered over to the chamber pot to be sick, bringing up nothing but stringy bile from his empty stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the wonderful comments about Milady's meddling and Athos' and Aramis' reactions to d'Artagnan's news in the last chapter. Hope you enjoy this next part!

d’Artagnan didn’t have long to wait for Milady to show herself again, the woman reappearing shortly after they’d searched the dead man’s apartments, locating incriminating documentation that indicated the man, identified as Jean De Mauvoisin, had recently made a large purchase of gun powder. The discovery had Athos hurrying to report to Treville, the Gascon begging off since it was getting late and he was exhausted from the stress and worry of the day. Aramis had given the Gascon a quick once over and nodded his head, Athos taking his cue from the medic and releasing the young man to return to his room to rest.

 

He’d made it barely halfway when a honey-soaked voice touched his ear, whispering his name so unexpectedly that he flinched and turned in surprise to see the woman smiling at him in amusement. Trying to push away his annoyance, he mustered a smile that he hoped was believable enough given the circumstances and offered a tilt of his head in greeting. “Twice in two days,” he remarked. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

Slipping her arm into his, she tugged him into motion, setting a leisurely pace toward the Bonacieux house. “I’ve just come to ask how you’re progressing, now that I’ve provided you with the proof of Porthos’ guilt.”

 

Stopping himself from giving in to the temptation of biting his lip, he intentionally allowed his brow to furrow as he replied, “It’s proven difficult to find Porthos. We know he’s somewhere in the Court of Miracles but our attempts to get to him have so far failed.”

 

Milady’s voice turned earnest as she said, “Surely you can bring more force to bear now that you have irrefutable proof of what he did.”

 

“It’s complicated,” the Gascon replied, allowing a note of frustration to color his tone. “Porthos has many supporters among those at the garrison who still believe him innocent.”

 

Milady huffed in disbelief, stopping and turning him by the grip she retained on his arm. Looking deeply into his eyes, she asked, “You do realize he’s done this before, don’t you?”

 

The frown on d’Artagnan’s face deepened, this time in genuine confusion at the woman’s words. “Done what before?”

 

“Killed a man,” she replied, her tone light as though sharing information that was of little consequence. At his continued silence, Milady adopted a look of incredulity, “They didn’t tell you?”

 

d’Artagnan’s mind began to reel, wondering now if he’d been foolish to listen to Athos and Aramis, allowing them to cast doubt on what he’d heard with his own ears. Milady read the hesitancy in his expression and pressed on, saying with sadness, “No, I don’t suppose they’d share such a thing with you. Best keep that among the commissioned men.”

 

The implication that a secret had been kept from the Gascon because of his status rankled him and he allowed some of his anger to show, “It’s not like that. I’m sure they would have told me if they felt it was relevant.”

 

Milady raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him as she countered, “How could a prior murder not be relevant in this situation?”

 

d’Artagnan looked away and began to walk again, the woman having to take a couple of quick steps to retake her place at his side. They moved in silence for several minutes before the Gascon’s curiosity got the better of him and he ordered, “Tell me what happened.”

 

She gave a small shrug as she explained, “It was years ago, before Porthos joined the Musketeers. You know that the Court is full of thieves and liars, and those living there will do anything for money. Porthos killed a nobleman just on the outskirts and then disappeared into its filthy streets to hide and avoid punishment. It’s still a mystery exactly how he managed to avoid hanging.”

 

d’Artagnan’s lips were pursed into a thin line as he racked his brain for any way to refute her claims, but the reality was that he had nothing he could say, not even aware of such an important fact from Porthos’ past. Before he knew it, they were across the street from the Bonacieux house and Milady was moving away from him, leaning in quickly to say, “Take care, d’Artagnan. The Musketeers’ bond is a fearsome thing and they will do anything to protect one of their own, no matter the cost.”

 

Seconds later she was gone, melting into the lingering crowds of people who still filled the streets, and the Gascon was left reeling and overcome with doubt. No matter how he reflected on the woman’s words, there was simply no reason for her to lie to him, which suggested that the real deceivers were Athos and Aramis. They’d never said one word about Porthos’ past and had vehemently defended his reputation at every turn; surely the two would not be party to protecting a murderer, no matter the circumstances. Worrying his bottom lip, d’Artagnan aimed toward the house, deep in thought and wondering exactly who, if anyone, he could actually trust. 

* * *

The news they’d shared with Treville had been worrying but at least offered the potential for an explanation for the murdered man’s death which had nothing to do with a drunken Musketeer who’d miscalculated while performing a party trick. The Captain had been unhappy with the look of Athos and had surreptitiously traded a glance with Aramis who stood slightly behind the older man and to one side as though ready to catch his friend if he should falter. The medic’s expression communicated volumes and Treville gave a short nod of understanding before fixing his gaze on his lieutenant to dismiss them both and order them to rest. Athos had seemed ready to argue but a touch of the marksman’s hand on his upper arm had him conceding and leading the way from Treville’s office.

 

They would continue their investigation the following day, but the older Musketeer would need to rest if he wanted to be of any use to them. As was often the case, he’d felt better that morning but as the day had worn on, his aches had reasserted themselves, led by the throbbing in his skull which would have him on his knees retching if he didn’t lay down soon. Aramis could perceptively read all this from his friend’s demeanor, recognizing the pinched expression on the older man’s face as well as the stiff way in which he held himself. They descended the stairs to the courtyard side-by-side, the medic ready to steady the other man if needed before guiding him out through the garrison gates; it was unspoken that Athos would be far more comfortable in his own rooms and that he would refuse a visit to the infirmary, no matter how badly he was feeling.

 

By the time the two had arrived at Athos’ apartments, the man was nearly gray with pain and nausea, his body letting him know in no uncertain terms that he’d overdone things and would now pay a heavy price for his folly. Wordlessly, Aramis helped the older man remove his weapons and slip out of his doublet, setting him down to sit on the edge of the bed as he pulled both boots from his friend’s feet. Guiding him backwards, the medic settled Athos on his bed, wetting a cloth and placing it across the man’s brow to provide some relief while he prepared a pain draught.

 

When the medicine was ready, Aramis placed a warm hand on his friend’s shoulder and received a small huff in reply, letting him know that Athos was still awake and ready to sit up enough to drink. The medic helped the older man raise his head sufficiently to down the draught before having it replaced on the pillow. Cooling the cloth in the basin of water, Aramis replaced it across Athos’ eyes, knowing that even the dim light of the few candles he’d lit would likely be making the pain in his friend’s head worse. As he settled the damp cloth, Athos murmured, “Thank you.”

 

Aramis smiled even though the older man could not see it and he squeezed his friend’s arm reassuringly, “Rest, Athos. We have much to do tomorrow.”

 

Within moments, Athos’ breathing had evened out into sleep, the medic grinning in satisfaction at having been able to alleviate the man’s pain so he could rest. He knew that he should try to get some sleep as well, but now that Athos had been taken care of, his mind turned to Porthos; their friend had been ensconced in the Court for nearly two full days and they’d had nothing but Charon’s earlier claim that the man was alright. It was little enough to cling to, but Aramis held on tightly to the hope it represented, not being able to even consider that Porthos might be injured or worse while they worked to prove his innocence.

 

His mind drifted back to the morning’s events, considering again what the Gascon had told them. While he’d acted as though the witness’ claim was unimportant, he’d been shaken by the thought that there was someone, of whom they were unaware, who was working against them in order to see Porthos hang. After the adrenaline and his initial bravado had worn off, he’d found himself truly shaken as the first seeds of doubt took hold, allowing himself to consider that they might fail and their friend would be put to death regardless of their actions. With a force of will, he pushed the thought aside, unwilling to allow it to take root and lead them down the path to failure. Somehow they would clear Porthos’ name and, if it proved an impossible task, he knew in his heart that they would find a way to help the man escape, perhaps even leaving the King’s service themselves in order to accompany their brother.

 

It was a sobering thought and one that Aramis wished he didn’t have to entertain, but the reality was that Porthos’ situation was dire and despite their best efforts on his behalf, this could be the time when they failed, the odds against them too great to be able to overcome. Remarkably, it was not the first time they’d faced such a situation, only months earlier racing against time to prove Athos’ innocence and succeeding with only seconds to spare in order to save him from the firing squad. He shuddered as he closed his eyes against the fear the memory awoke; it had been far too close for any of them and Aramis was determined that they would not have a repeat of it when it came to Porthos.

 

In the early hours of the morning, when the world was still shrouded in darkness, they’d drank to excess and reflected on Athos’ near death. He’d admitted to them then that he’d been ready to die but would have fled Paris with his brothers if he’d been able to. The revelation had shocked the men for a moment until both Porthos and Aramis had nodded, recognizing that they too would do anything for the others in their trio. They’d made a pact then, solemnly followed by a toast with Athos’ best brandy that they would never face such a situation alone again, preferring a life as outlaws over the epithet of dying as wrongly-accused criminals.

 

As the possibility of following through on their promise loomed, Aramis wondered if Athos had recalled that same night and was considering whether or not it would be necessary for them to flee the city. If he had, he’d given no indication that it had crossed his mind, although the medic knew how well Athos guarded his thoughts, no one but those closest to him having an inkling of what was going on in his mind if he didn’t want them to.

 

Perhaps it was time to speak with Athos of that night, Aramis contemplated, his own weariness making it difficult to remain positive and believe that the situation would be resolved in Porthos’ favour. Bleary eyes turned toward the window revealing the pitch black of night, reminding him that morning was still many hours away and he was well on his way to a second sleepless night. Tiredly scrubbing a hand across his face, Aramis carefully leaned back in his chair and placed his feet on the end of the bed, as he crossed his arms and closed his eyes, settling down for another uncomfortable rest. 

* * *

His initial surprise at finding himself back at the Court of Miracles had given way to relief and then frustration as the reality of his situation dawned and his old friends tried to convince him to leave Paris for good. He’d tried to reason with Charon and Flea, explaining to them that he had friends who would come for him after his name had been cleared; their resulting expressions had been a mix of disbelief and thinly-veiled tolerance, clearly suggesting that he was being humoured. It had made his irritation spike and reminded him again why he’d been compelled to leave and build a life elsewhere. His intimate moments with Flea had been unexpected but welcome, the previous events making him feel disconnected and off-balance and the woman’s caress had grounded him, offering him a short reprieve in the maelstrom that had become his life.

 

He’d never set out to be a soldier, even though when he reflected on his life he realized that he’d been one before ever entering into the King’s service, the daily struggle for survival and his penchant to protect those less fortunate inadvertently casting him in the role long before he and Treville had crossed paths. Although it may not have been a life he’d intentionally chosen, it was one he was now desperate to return to, the strength and support of his brothers sorely missed.

 

Flea’s words had offered him some small measure of comfort and he chose to believe that she was correct and he would know if he’d killed a man, regardless of the alcohol he’d consumed. Soon after, flashes of the previous night had returned, offering him additional hope that he was not a murderer but had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time; unfortunately, his assertion would not be nearly enough to clear his name and he would need to have faith that his brothers would find the evidence needed to prove his innocence.

 

Now, in the early hours, he listened to the sounds of the Court, the streets around him never really falling completely silent as the residents scrounged for scraps or shivered in rags against the chill. His thoughts drifted to his friends and he wondered how they were faring, confident that they would be doing everything in their power to help him, regardless of the proof against him. Aramis, he knew, would be worried and would do his best to hide his growing concern under a veneer of charming looks and witty remarks, all the while desperately seeking a way to return Porthos to their midst. Athos was much more subtle in his tells but he, too, would be fearful for his friend, channelling his anxiety to drive him relentlessly in pursuit of the truth.

 

His thoughts skipped for a moment to d’Artagnan, the young man a peripheral part of their group while remaining on the outside; acknowledged but not necessarily accepted. Aramis’ view toward the boy had seemed to change following their last mission but Porthos had been reticent, liking the Gascon well enough but unable to so easily forgive the fact that d’Artagnan had placed his brother in harm’s way. It was unfair, Porthos acknowledged, but feelings weren’t always grounded in reason, and he couldn’t help that a small part of him still blamed the young man for Aramis’ injuries.

 

Given his doubts, it was likely that d’Artagnan would have doubts of his own and Porthos contemplated whether or not the young man would have felt enough loyalty toward the three of them to remain at his friends’ sides and assist with their investigation; surprisingly, he found himself hoping so. Of course, logic countered, if any of the three were to have qualms about his innocence, it would be the Gascon and the thought sparked a new ember of annoyance in him that he had to quash.

 

It was nearing morning and Porthos waited impatiently for the dawn that would shift the darkness of the Court to various shades of gray, most of the residents choosing to stay hidden in the shadows and out of the light. There was time when he’d found comfort in its anonymity but now he found it suffocating, longing for nothing more than the vibrancy of Paris and the camaraderie of his brothers. With a sigh, he heaved himself up from the bed he’d been given, pulling his clothes on despite the earliness of the day; there was no way he would get any more sleep that night and his restless mind and body needed to be in motion to bleed away some of the anxiety he felt. Somewhere out there, beyond the invisible boundaries that marked the edges of the Court were his friends, and he clung to the belief that the men were doing everything in their power to make it possible for them to reunite. 

* * *

In an odd imitation of the previous day’s events, d’Artagnan was once again waiting for Athos and Aramis when they arrived at the garrison, the only difference being the young man’s almost frenetic pacing that had some of the other early risers giving the Gascon a wide berth. The two exchanged a glance as they approached, neither of them having an explanation for what they were witnessing. “d’Artagnan,” Aramis began when they were within earshot, pitching his voice lowly so as not to startle the boy. “What’s the matter?”

 

The Gascon halted in his strides, matching the quietness of the marksman’s voice as he hissed, his face screwed up in a mask of anger. “What’s the matter?” he paused and drew a breath, “why didn’t you tell me that this isn’t the first time that has Porthos killed a man?”

 

The fire in Aramis’ eyes was immediate and it shocked d’Artagnan, making the young man pull back a step at the unmistakable look of fury he now faced. A glance in Athos’ direction confirmed the older man was similarly infuriated, but more skilled in hiding his emotions; the stiffness of his shoulders and the intensity of the man’s gaze, however, left little doubt as to his mood. Taking two quick steps forward, the marksman’s hand wrapped around the Gascon’s arm in an iron grip that had him wincing in discomfort but he refused to say anything or pull away, determined to meet the situation head on regardless of the outcome. Pulling him close to whisper in his ear, Aramis spoke, “You do not know of what you speak.”

 

d’Artagnan began to sputter a reply but he’d been pulled into motion before he could say another word, a hard look from Athos causing him to clamp his jaw closed as the older man fell into step beside them and they exited out through the garrison gates. They walked in silence, the Gascon flanked by the two Musketeers, Aramis’ hand never moving or releasing any of the pressure he was exerting on the young man’s bicep and d’Artagnan was certain he would have finger-shaped bruises there by nightfall.

 

He was surprised when they arrived at Athos’ rooms, neither man’s steps slowing as they bustled him up the stairs and planted him firmly in a chair at the older man’s table. The Gascon watched them expectantly, Athos’ gaze never wavering and tinged with disappointment while Aramis paced, clearly angry and not yet calm enough to speak. The marksman eventually paused for a moment, drawing a deep breath, only to resume his pacing for another minute before finally settling into a chair across from the young man, his every movement sharp and precise as if still holding himself tightly under control.

 

“What do you know of Porthos’ past?” Aramis asked, pinning d’Artagnan with a steely gaze that was every bit as unnerving as Athos’. For several seconds, the Gascon bitterly regretted his earlier accusation, a small part of him afraid at their reactions.

 

Inhaling slowly and remembering his outrage from the prior day, he replied, “Porthos killed a nobleman for his money.”

 

“No,” Athos declared, his words leaving no room for argument. “For love, country or honor, but never for money.”

 

Aramis threw him a grateful look, his eyes silently saying everything he could not voice as he considered the enormity of d’Artagnan’s statement. The Gascon was confused but didn’t dare say anything as he waited for one or the other of the two men to clarify.

 

After nearly a minute of silence, the marksman began to speak, “Porthos _did_ kill a nobleman.” He paused, shooting a warning glance at the young man, lest he try to interrupt. “It was the Baron Abélard, if I remember correctly.” A quick look to Athos saw the older man nodding in confirmation. “The Baron thought the residents of the Court to be insignificant, not entitled to even the most basic of human dignities and as such, he felt himself free to do with them whatever he wished. Porthos interrupted his attempts to force himself on a young girl no more than thirteen years of age.”

 

Aramis drew a steadying breath as though reliving the event himself even though the Gascon knew there was no way that was possible, the men not having met Porthos until they’d become Musketeers under Treville’s command. Taking up the story, Athos explained, “When he was challenged, the Baron pulled the girl in front of him and placed a dagger at her throat, threatening to kill her if Porthos did not retreat. Somehow, Porthos managed to gain the upper hand and dispatch the man, saving the girl in the process.”

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes had grown wide in disbelief at the story he was hearing, but it was still not enough to convince him and he finally found his voice as he asked, “But he was never punished.”

 

“Have you ever wondered how Porthos came to be among us, d’Artagnan?” Athos asked, his tone conveying his extreme displeasure.

 

The Gascon’s gaze flitted between the two men as he racked his brain for an answer, realizing he had none to offer since he had no knowledge of Porthos’ recruitment to the Musketeers. “I…I don’t know,” he eventually stammered.

 

Aramis seemed to deflate as he rubbed a hand across his face, leaving the rest of the explanation to Athos. “The Baron was well-known for his proclivities but the authorities did not have sufficient proof to arrest him. That night, Treville witnessed what happened and, although Porthos disappeared back into the depths of the Court, the Captain eventually located him and offered him a chance to become a recruit. He is the reason that Porthos is a free man and one of the finest Musketeers we’ve ever had the privilege to serve with.”

 

d’Artagnan’s stomach dropped, the breath leaving his chest in a rush as he processed what he’d just heard. The two men stared at him in silence as the Gascon abruptly stood from his chair, knocking it over in the process as he staggered over to the chamber pot to be sick, bringing up nothing but stringy bile from his empty stomach. When he’d finished, he pushed himself up from his knees, moving as quickly as he could to the door, too ashamed to stay in the men’s company even a second longer.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We do not hold your actions against you, d’Artagnan,” Aramis began. “But you will not have another chance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great response to d'Artagnan's actions in the last chapter. For those of you wondering what's happening in the present day, this chapter includes another look - enjoy!

d’Artagnan was able to do nothing more than pull the door towards him before it was firmly slammed closed, Athos’ hand forcing it out of the Gascon’s grasp and preventing him from leaving. “Sit down,” the older man ordered, his tone low and menacing and leaving no room for argument. Momentarily the young man considered disobeying but as he looked from one man to the other he was surprised by what he saw, the expressions on the Musketeers’ faces making him pause and reconsider. Aramis seemed deflated and incredibly tired, and d’Artagnan realized for the first time that not only was the situation with Porthos incredibly stressful but it must have been the medic who had stayed by Athos’ side after he’d been hurt. The older man still radiated anger but underneath was a barely controlled fear, and the Gascon recognized that for Athos, the loss of control and inability to set things right would be one of the greatest burdens to carry. With a short nod, he moved to the chair he’d previously occupied, the older Musketeer following and sitting also.

 

With more consideration than he felt he deserved, Aramis rose and found a clean cup, pouring a hefty measure of water into it before placing it in front of the young man, watching him as he retook his seat. d’Artagnan managed a quiet murmur of thanks, drinking several swallows in an effort to remove the sour taste of sickness from his mouth. Once he’d replaced the cup on the table in front of him, Athos sighed and began to speak. “d’Artagnan, you do not know Porthos as well as we do but if you are to stay in our company, then we must have your word that you will work with us and not against us.”

 

The Gascon swallowed, grimacing slightly at the remaining foul taste in his mouth and he took another drink of water, considering Athos’ words as he did so. The man’s statement was intended as a warning, but underlying it, d’Artagnan also heard an invitation to stay. He knew the reputation of these three men was unparalleled and he’d heard stories of the Inseparables’ loyalty to one another soon after he’d started training at the garrison. Alongside the tales of their fidelity were the ones that described their solidarity and he knew that the three did not often allow others into their fold. Ironically, he was once again faced with the same choice as when Milady had first introduced him to Montagne and he’d agonized over whether or not to pursue Porthos’ guilt at the risk of losing favour with the Musketeers.

 

He looked back at the two men’s faces and, although both men were guarded, Aramis’ seemed to hold a bit of longing as though hoping that the young man would choose to remain at their sides. The realization that the marksman might want him to stay had the Gascon nodding, the pull of belonging too strong to resist. Aramis allowed the softest of sighs to escape while Athos merely settled more comfortably in his chair as though unable to relax until they’d received the boy’s answer. “If you are to help us clear Porthos’ name, I must insist that any more encounters with this woman be reported immediately no matter what claim she makes,” the older Musketeer stated, again waiting for d’Artagnan to dip his head in agreement.

 

With a concerned glance at Aramis, Athos continued, “We spoke with Captain Treville last night and he has authorized us to return to the Protestant church so we may confront the priest about the gun powder.” d’Artagnan nodded as the older man chose his next words, “You are welcome to accompany us.”

 

“Of course,” the Gascon replied, hurrying to stand and begin proving to the men that he would not falter in his constancy again. Before he could move from the table, Aramis’ hand gripped his wrist and d’Artagnan met the medic’s gaze.

 

“We do not hold your actions against you, d’Artagnan,” Aramis began. “But you will not have another chance.”

 

Accurately interpreting that he would not be forgiven another similar mistake, he swallowed thickly before promising, “I won’t need one.”

 

The two Musketeers nodded and the marksman released his grip, Athos leading the way from his rooms and back to the church. 

* * *

Their journey to the church had been a sombre one, each man lost in his own thoughts and d’Artagnan could not help but reflect on the looks of disappointment he’d received from Athos and Aramis as he chastised himself yet again for having doubted them. That he’d begun to believe a woman who he hardly knew and who’d left him to be accused of murder sent a flush of shame through him and he dropped his eyes to the ground as they travelled, unable to meet either man’s gaze.

 

Fortunately their return to the church had been productive and things moved swiftly from that point, the priest giving them the clue that they needed to discover the truth and soon they found themselves back in the presence of the elder De Mauvoisin, the man this time admitting to killing his own son, an idea that repulsed the Gascon so much that he found his fragile stomach threating to rebel again. The nobleman’s news had the three running from the house to prevent the destruction of the Court, and most importantly, to locate their brother.

 

They’d engaged De Mauvoisin’s men and managed to stop the gun powder from igniting, Aramis ultimately killing Porthos’ former friend, Charon, when the man had attacked. Afterwards, Athos had seen to the safe removal of the explosive while the medic had tended to Flea’s wound, Porthos hovering nearby to assure himself of her health while d’Artagnan observed everything quietly, doing his best to blend into the background. The large man noticed the Gascon’s unusually quiet disposition and a glance at the marksman confirmed his suspicions – d’Artagnan had believed him guilty. And yet the boy was here, with them, and he’d fought just as vehemently as the others to prevent the nobleman’s plans from succeeding, a fact that made the young man something of a contradiction and kept Porthos from passing judgement too quickly.

 

When they’d finished, the three men mounted their horses, waiting for the large Musketeer to say his farewells to Flea. Once the woman had walked off, Porthos’ purse dangling from her fingers, he turned to his friends with an inquisitive look as he asked, “Tell me the truth; any of you think I did it?”

 

As one, Athos and Aramis turned their heads to look at d’Artagnan, the young man summoning a cheeky grin as he said, “Not for a moment.” Porthos gave a nod but he knew the truth and it would have to be dealt with; distrust between soldiers was a dangerous thing that could result in a man’s death.

 

That night they retreated to one of the better taverns in Paris, finding a more secluded spot at the back while Athos’ coin provided a steady supply of quality wine. Their conversations were subdued and interspersed with long periods of comfortable silence, belying the celebratory mood that should have encompassed the four after clearing Porthos’ name. As the evening wore on and d’Artagnan seemed to grow ever more withdrawn and sullen, Aramis gave a nod toward Athos who’d taken a nearby table of his own just a short time ago. Porthos’ eyes tracked the marksman’s movements and he watched as his friend took a seat across from the older man, helping himself to some of his wine as he sat.

 

The two men had given him this time to speak with the Gascon, sensing his desire to clear the air with the boy and he was grateful for the opportunity, too tired from the previous days’ events to allow things between them to fester. “You believed me guilty,” Porthos stated evenly, no hint of accusation in his tone.

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes met the larger man’s before flickering to the table where the other two sat, seeming unsurprised by Porthos’ words. With a tired nod, he concurred, “I did.” Neither man spoke and the silence stretched between them for several minutes before the Gascon took a sip of his wine and said, “I’d received information from a witness who claimed to have seen you do it.”

 

Porthos gave a low grunt, still not hearing what truly had him curious, “Why believe someone you hardly know over Athos and Aramis?”

 

d’Artagnan drained his wine glass and then clasped it between both hands, rolling it between his palms as he gathered his thoughts. He’d wondered the same thing earlier and was still lacking a good explanation. The truth was that he’d doubted the men’s ability to remain objective, fearing that they would be unable to see past their relationship with Porthos and do what was necessary to uphold the law. The investigation had too many similarities to his own father’s death and he’d found himself just as driven to secure justice this time around as he had been before, knowing that he would not be able to live with himself if he did not do what he thought was right. Finally ready to answer Porthos’ question, he offered, “I thought Aramis and Athos would be blinded to the truth because of their feelings for you.” Dropping his head and shaking it for a moment, he said, “I could not stand by and see a man’s death go unpunished, no matter the cost.”

 

Porthos observed the Gascon carefully, the young man’s shoulders still slumped but seeming more at ease with himself despite what he’d just shared. He was not surprised at the boy’s answer as he’d guessed the same, the young man not having been in their company long enough to develop the strong bonds that he and the others shared. “What changed your mind?”

 

d’Artagnan’s face burned with embarrassment as he replied, “They told me about the Baron you’d killed.”

 

“Ah,” the larger man responded, still needing more before he could decide how he felt about the boy. Changing tact, he asked, “Why did you stay with Aramis instead of leaving him and going for help?”

 

The Gascon’s gaze shot upwards, his expression confused by the abrupt change in direction their conversation had taken. Taking a moment, he drew a breath and answered, “It was the right thing to do.” Porthos continued to stare at him quietly and, unnerved, d’Artagnan added, “He would have died if I’d left him alone.”

 

Porthos nodded slowly as he processed the young man’s words, knowing that he’d finally heard what he’d needed. The boy was driven by a strong sense of justice and honor and would, above all else, do what was right. It was what had prompted him to challenge Athos to a duel, to undertake a dangerous mission that placed him in danger with Vadim, and the reason he’d returned to Pinon after Athos had ordered them to leave; the Gascon had an unerring passion for doing the right thing, guided by a moral compass that seemed to direct his every action. Taking a deep drink of his wine, the Musketeer replied, “Alright.”

 

d’Artagnan gave him a look of confusion, having no idea what Porthos was referring to nor the fact that he’d just been measured by the man sitting across from him. “What do you mean, alright?”

 

“Exactly what I just said,” Porthos stated. “I understand why you did you what you did and I know you’re likely to act in a similar fashion in the future; that means I can trust you.”

 

The Gascon’s expression remained puzzled, having no idea how his actions could be interpreted by the other man as trustworthiness since his activities had been almost consistently against the goals of the other two Musketeers. As if able to read the young man’s thoughts, Porthos softened his features and explained, “People who are unpredictable get others killed because you can never know what they’re gonna do; makes them unreliable. You, my young friend, are predictable and that means I can trust you to have my back and to protect the others to the best of your ability when I’m not around.”

 

“But, Porthos, I thought you were guilty and would have worked to have you hanged,” d’Artagnan spluttered.

 

“Exactly,” the large man agreed, now grinning. “You always try to do what’s right no matter what.” As the Gascon processed what he’d just heard, Porthos tipped the wine bottle and refilled both their glasses, waiting for realization to dawn.

 

“You’re serious,” d’Artagnan replied, his tone questioning as though waiting to be contradicted, but the Musketeer simply kept grinning as he lifted his glass in a toast. When Porthos remained quiet, d’Artagnan lifted his own glass, returning the toast, Porthos then turning to the other table to include his other two friends, both of whom raised their glasses before drinking. Aramis and Athos had rejoined them shortly afterwards, the conversation flowing more easily and the marksman throwing the occasional amused look in d’Artagnan’s direction. For his part, the Gascon was still unsure about what had just happened, but Porthos’ perspective of him seemed to have changed in some significant way that the young man was at a loss to describe.

 

As they left the tavern, their bodies flushed with wine and good company, they walked companionably in the direction of their various rooms, and d’Artagnan was surprised to find himself between Porthos and Aramis, their shoulders occasionally bumping against each other as they walked. When they stopped to part ways, Porthos grasped Aramis’ and Athos’ arms in turn, pulling them into a brief hug in thanks for their part in declaring him innocent, while the Gascon looked on, waiting for his opportunity to wish the men good night. Before he could do so, Porthos turned to him and pulled him into an embrace that was no less enthusiastic than the ones he’d just imparted on the other two men. For a moment, d’Artagnan was too startled to do anything before he returned the hug, revelling in the companionship and strength that the act represented.

 

Releasing him, Porthos gave another of his infectious grins, clapping the young man on the back before giving a final wave to his friends and wandering off. The marksman offered d’Artagnan a pleased smile and a murmured good night, while Athos gave a more sedate nod of his head before moving off. Seconds later the Gascon found himself alone in the mostly deserted street, unaffected by the cool evening air as he was warmed from within at the camaraderie he’d just experienced. With a large grin on his face, the young man turned toward the Bonacieux residence, finally at peace with what he’d done. 

* * *

_ Present day: _

 

Porthos had agreed with Athos’ decision to spend the night at the farmhouse, but that didn’t mean that he was any happier than his friends about the additional delay in setting out to search for d’Artagnan. All of them had been captured in the past, and while some prisons were nicer than others, the experience was never a pleasant one, invariably ending in some sort of physical pain, inflicted by those who would try to manipulate the situation in their favour. The mental anguish was often worse than anything endured by the body, and Porthos recalled his own most recent capture which had landed him among his _friends_ in the Court of Miracles. He’d believed himself safe until Charon’s deception had been revealed and, although he bore no physical wounds from the encounter, the emotional ones had plagued him for weeks afterwards as he came to terms with the treachery of his childhood friend.

 

It was in the aftermath of that fiasco that he and d’Artagnan had found some sort of even footing with one another, Porthos understanding and accepting that the young man was driven by a strong sense of honor and providing the large man with an insight that he’d previously lacked, finally recognizing what Aramis had seen weeks earlier and which had led the marksman to accept the boy as a friend. Porthos had willingly acknowledged his reticence in viewing the Gascon in a similar fashion and when he’d admitted as much to the marksman, Aramis had simply smiled and told him to give it time. His friend’s advice proved true and the large man soon found himself including d’Artagnan among those he considered friends and the bond quickly grew from there, Porthos taking great enjoyment from sparring with the boy and sharing stories during the hours they spent together both on and off duty.

 

The Gascon’s absence now pained him and he packed his things swiftly as they prepared to depart, a glance at Aramis and Athos confirming that they, too, were driven by a single-minded focus to be on their way and in search of their friend. When they were ready, Athos traded a few final words with the Musketeers who would be taking their place and then they were off, mounting their horses while the weak light of dawn was still struggling to illuminate the ground around them and burn away the dew of the night. Porthos gave their surroundings little thought, determined to return to the site of their ambush so they could begin their search from there.

 

The journey took a couple hours to complete, and the group was quiet as they surveyed the location where they’d last seen their fourth. Although Porthos had returned previously to confirm the lack of a body, he was just as struck by the desolation of the spot in which they’d been attacked, surrounded by large hulking trees that even now filtered the sun’s rays and added another level of gloominess that threatened to consume them. The sat on their horses for several minutes as they scrutinized the area, each man lost in his own thoughts, undoubtedly reliving the battle while struggling against feelings of guilt at having left the boy behind.

 

It was Porthos who was the first to break the silence that had descended on them, slipping effortlessly from his horse and keeping a hand on the reins as he began to move around the clearing to look for clues in earnest. The other two followed shortly afterwards, each moving to a different point at the outskirts of the trees, looking for the tell-tale tracks that would indicate the direction in which the bandits had travelled. It was Porthos who spotted it, the trail barely visible as it disappeared between two trees, leading further into the forest, which would make the men even more difficult to follow given the amount of leaves and deadfall that littered the ground.

                                         

The large man’s low whistle drew Aramis and Athos to his side and the latter nodded heavily, already recognizing that they would need to stay on foot as they followed the path, the likelihood that they would lose it if on horseback too great to risk. Porthos led the way through the trees as his friends followed, each man guiding his horse behind him as they entered the forest, eyes and ears sharply attuned to the sights and sounds around them as they looked for further signs of the bandits’ passing and kept watch against attack.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forgetting for a moment his influence on the boy, the Musketeer replied in annoyance, “Not yet good enough to join our ranks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's continuing to comment and leave kudos - I'm grateful for the positive response and love reading your thoughts about each chapter. Hope you enjoy this next part!

_ Months earlier: _

 

Their latest mission had been somewhat of a departure from their typical assignments, their task having nothing to do with the protection of the King and Queen and no involvement with bandits or other nefarious types who sought to murder or steal in order to improve their own circumstances. In fact, their orders had been quite vague, ordering them simply to escort a young woman and her child to Paris, without providing any information regarding her background or importance to the King. Of course, Athos reflected as he sipped his wine, it was likely that Louis had been unaware of the drama that had unfolded over the past few days, the Royal dealing with his own concerns surrounding the reappearance of his mother, a woman he’d sworn to execute if she ever returned to France. The result was an intricate dance of political intrigues, the King, or more likely the Cardinal, orchestrating a situation that produced a favorable outcome for his Majesty and sent the man’s mother once again into exile.

 

Athos was relieved that they hadn’t been at the palace as the story had unfolded, almost grateful that their attention had been elsewhere, even though their mission had not been without its concerning moments. Especially worrying had been Aramis’ decision to have d’Artagnan accompany him upon being asked by Treville to collect the woman and Athos recalled the conversation they’d had before the two men had departed.

 

_“Aramis, one of us should be with you,” Porthos said, surprised and possibly a little hurt that the marksman had invited the Gascon to accompany him._

_“Porthos,” the medic soothed, “it’s a two-man mission and a simple one at that. There’s no need for anyone else to come.”_

_“Even more reason for the second person to be one of us,” the large man grumbled in reply, clearly unconvinced and unhappy at the idea of not being there to watch his friend’s back._

_Aramis offered his friend a conciliatory smile, remaining patient with the large Musketeer as he reminded himself that the last mission he and the Gascon had undertaken had not ended so well, despite the fact that it, too, had been a simple one. Turning to look at Athos instead, his smile faded a little as he noted the look of intense concentration on the older man’s face, “You haven’t commented yet, my friend.”_

_Athos gave a slight shrug as he replied, “There’s little I can say to change your mind once you’ve decided something. I just hope we don’t come to regret your choice.”_

_The comment was a slight against Aramis’ judgement and uncharacteristically petulant on Athos’ part, but the marksman refused to be drawn into a debate, satisfied with his decision despite his friends’ misgivings. His grin was perhaps a bit forced, but he dredged one up regardless as he concurred, “I’m glad you understand.”_

_But Athos didn’t understand, regardless of the fact that he’d observed first Aramis and then Porthos extend their friendship to the young man, despite the awkwardness of the events that marked the start of their acquaintance. Athos had taken it easy on the boy when he’d appeared at the garrison to try to kill him, never in a hurry to take anyone’s life in spite of the need to often to do so in his service to the King. He didn’t regret his choice, and it had proven to be a wise decision given d’Artagnan’s role in clearing his name, however that didn’t mean that he was eager to have the boy around. Initially, he believed his two dearest friends to feel the same way about the young man, but they’d continuously humoured the boy, encouraging his training and his dream to someday join their ranks._

_Athos didn’t dislike the young man per se, but the Gascon’s presence had a way of unsettling him and the Musketeer was frustrated that he was still unable to understand why. d’Artagnan was young, but no more so than some of their previous recruits, even if the others his age had quickly failed to prove their readiness and been dismissed from the garrison, while the Gascon had determinedly managed to hang on. The boy was pleasant enough, if a bit too talkative and headstrong for Athos’ tastes, but even that should not be enough to put him off, having learned early on, as he was groomed for his position as Comte, the skills and finesse to deal with all sorts of people. In some instances, Athos found something familiar about the young man, but as yet had been unable to put his finger on it, although he wondered if Aramis and Porthos might have more insight on the matter as he’d caught their occasional amused grins in his direction when his annoyance with the boy flared._

_Pushing aside his own reflections, he reminded himself that Aramis was about to depart on a mission with no one but an unseasoned young man at his side, a situation that worried him as much as it concerned Porthos. “Aramis, perhaps Porthos would be a better choice,” he ventured, his voice low but infused with all the care he held for his brother._

_The marksman’s features softened in kind as he asked, “Athos, what is it that prevents you from trusting d’Artagnan? He’s been on missions with us in the past and is diligent in his training. Even you admit to his natural talent with the sword, so why does this bother you so?”_

_Athos opened his mouth to speak but found he lacked the words to express what he was uncertain of himself, and he clamped his lips back together, shaking his head in defeat. Aramis seemed to understand despite his friend’s silence and clasped the older man’s shoulder for a moment in comfort before stepping away, his eyes darting past at the approaching Gascon. “Ah, d’Artagnan,” he called, “ready to go?” The Gascon must have replied in the affirmative and seconds later Aramis was walking away to join the young man in the stable._

 

The mission had been a success and both men had returned safely, but Athos had found himself only able to fully breathe again upon their safe return. Their adventure had continued as Aramis broke one of his cardinal rules and became personally invested in helping the woman and her child escape to safety, without revealing his plan to the others and then orchestrating a harrowing escapade that had the young mother temporarily devastated over the perceived loss of her son.

 

Things had ended well, with the mother and babe experiencing a joyous reunion, but Athos was unable to see past the marksman’s folly, something he felt the Gascon had encouraged rather than providing sound advice as one of his brothers would have done. It irked Athos anew as he considered how the young man had briefly usurped their position at Aramis’ side, although Athos would openly concede that envy was not a typical emotion to which he succumbed. Once more, he’d spoken with the medic to understand why he’d done what he’d done, but the conversation was no more satisfying than the one he’d experienced at the start of the debacle.

 

_“Athos, I can see that something troubles you,” Aramis began, knowing that the older man wanted to speak with him but was likely uncomfortable beginning the conversation._

_Athos was equal parts annoyed that the marksman was able to read him so well and relieved that he’d been provided with an opening to begin their discussion; the only question that remained was whether he would avail himself of the opportunity, still feeling unbalanced and uncertain of exactly why he was so troubled by recent events._

_Taking a small sip of the wine he held in one hand, he did his best to gather his thoughts. “I find myself unsettled by recent events,” he began, pausing as he realized the conversation would require a greater level of openness on his part than he was normally known for. Drawing a deeper breath he continued, “It bothers me that I am unsettled by what happened and that I have no logical reason to feel bothered.” He stopped, seeing the amused grin on Aramis’ face as he repeated the words he’d shared in his head and recognized the circular nature of what he’d said._

_Groaning to himself, he dropped his eyes for a moment and considered how best to continue. Aramis waited patiently, tipping the bottle of wine that sat between them and refilling the older man’s glass as if sensing that their discussion would require additional liquid courage. As the silence between them stretched, the marksman quietly cleared his throat to get his friend’s attention before stating, “You believed that your or Porthos’ presence at my side would have led to a different set of circumstances.” Although not a question, Athos found himself slowly nodding all the same, grateful for his friend’s perceptiveness. “And if I assured you that it would not?” Aramis asked, watching carefully for Athos’ reaction, the expected cringe appearing almost immediately and darkening the older man’s expression._

_Sighing, Aramis reached a hand forward, clasping Athos’ fingers in his as though needing to ground the man with his touch as he said, “Athos, I cannot force you to accept the boy any more than I could change Porthos’ perception of him, but I will not bend to your will – not in this. We have known each other long enough that I can be honest and tell you that in relationships you are often inept and it is only through the determination and perceptiveness of those around you that you have any friends at all.”_

_Athos’ head jerked up sharply at the marksman’s last words, seeing the soft grin on the man’s face that removed any sting from them, but recognizing that they were spoken with all seriousness just the same. He could not argue with what Aramis had said, his and Porthos’ friendship a prime example and something that had come about only due to the persistence of the two men in seeing the best in him and accepting him regardless of his many faults. Why two men as fine as Aramis and Porthos would want to be his friends still baffled him, but he accepted their friendship with gratitude and did his best to be worthy of the gift they extended._

_Aramis had allowed the older man several moments to process what he’d said, comfortable enough in their bond to know that Athos would not be upset with him for it and needing the man to truly understand how he’d come to view the Gascon. For him, d’Artagnan’s presence was no longer something to be tolerated, but something to be encouraged and enjoyed, the young man having become almost as important to him as Porthos and Athos with the difference in his feelings about them due only to the amount of time they’d known one another. He was confident that Porthos would echo what he felt and that, with time, Athos would come to feel the same, if only he allowed himself the opportunity to see d’Artagnan as more than just another recruit._

_“Athos,” Aramis pitched his voice lowly as he squeezed the older man’s hand, “give the boy a chance at least. For some reason, he seeks your approval and I believe he can be a good friend to all three of us.”_

_Athos’ eyes narrowed at Aramis’ comment, surprised to hear about d’Artagnan’s need for approval and ready to tell the marksman he was wrong when Porthos approached their table, holding another bottle of wine in one hand as he pulled out a chair and joined them. Looking from one man to the other, he immediately recognized the serious expressions on their faces and he nodded his head in understanding. He glanced at Aramis and something passed silently between the two men, Porthos then focusing his attention on Athos as though he and Aramis had discussed their views in advance. “Athos, you know Aramis is right. It took me a while to get there, but the boy’s got a good heart and he fits with us.”_

_Athos’ brow furrowed at Porthos’ odd choice of words, unable to imagine a future where another would fit into their group as seamlessly as the three of them meshed together. Unhappy with the odds now against him, he returned to Aramis’ comment, saying, “Actually, I was about to explain that Aramis was incorrect in his assertion that d’Artagnan seeks my approval.”_

_Porthos snorted, a fond grin splitting his face at his friend’s obliviousness, “Of course he wants your approval, Athos; a blind man could see that.” Athos’ expression remained puzzled and the large man’s grin slipped as he went on, “Athos, you’re not serious. Surely you’ve seen how his face lights up at the smallest bit of praise from you.”_

_The older Musketeer’s face remained unknowing and Porthos began to shake his head as Aramis stated, “Entirely out of his element when it comes to understanding the feelings of others.” Athos’ scowl deepened but he didn’t contradict the marksman, Aramis and Porthos now sharing a laugh at his expense as they agreed on the predicament in which the older man now found himself._

 

Their night had ended shortly afterwards with Athos holding no ill feelings toward his two friends, but still confused about how he was feeling and why. Conceding that it was possible that there was some truth to what the men had said, the next day he resolved to pay more attention to the Gascon, specifically how the boy acted in his presence, as he continued to mull over the men’s comments about d’Artagnan’s desire for his approval.

 

The day had started similarly to most days with the men enjoying breakfast at their usual table, Porthos pushing more food on the boy in an effort to fatten him up while the young man ate with restraint, always mindful of not taking more than his fair share. Afterwards, Aramis had taken d’Artagnan aside to practice loading his pistol, still unhappy with the amount of time the boy required to complete the task. Once the marksman was at least partially satisfied with the Gascon’s increased proficiency, Athos invited him to spar, Porthos and Aramis standing unobtrusively to one side to watch the two, fully aware of what was going on.

 

As the two men engaged, Athos made mental notes of what the boy was doing well and what would require correction, calling the latter out in a calm tone in between thrusts so the young man could adjust his form as they practiced. Successful corrections received a small tilt of the head, Athos watching in satisfaction as the boy’s skill increased slowly but surely under his tutelage. As much as he was loathe to admit it out loud, Aramis was correct and the boy had a natural ability with the blade which would only improve with time and practice, making him a formidable force one day in the near future.

 

As Athos moved in closer, he was able to land a light strike against the boy’s hip, getting in low and under his guard, prompting a scowl to paint his features as a word of critique passed his lips, “Guard your side, d’Artagnan.” The effect was almost instantaneous as the Gascon’s face fell for a moment before being replaced with an expression of extreme determination, the young man’s next move stronger and imbued with a combination of anger and embarrassment.

 

The reaction surprised the Musketeer, noticing for the first time how much of an impact he was having on the fledgling recruit. He filed the information away for later and continued to press the boy, impressed when a few minutes later, d’Artagnan had successfully prevented Athos from repeating his earlier glancing blow. Intentionally, the older man voiced his approval, watching carefully for the young man’s response, “Well done, d’Artagnan.” Athos’ words were spoken quietly, just loud enough for the Gascon’s ears and his face immediately flushed with pride, a small, shy smile appearing as he refocused himself on their sparring, even more determined to do well against the skilled Musketeer.

 

Both men were breathing heavily by this time and Athos put up his sword, the boy mirroring his actions as the older man motioned toward the table, “We should take some water before we continue.” d’Artagnan nodded eagerly and led the way as Athos traded glances with a smirking Aramis and Porthos, the two men obviously aware of what had transpired. As Porthos drew near, he leaned closer to his older friend and whispered, “Told you so.” Athos’ lips thinned in irritation but he said nothing, making his way to the table and accepting the cup of water that d’Artagnan passed to him.

 

“Your skills are improving,” Aramis stated, turning his attention next to the older man. “Don’t you agree, Athos?”

 

Forgetting for a moment his influence on the boy, the Musketeer replied in annoyance, “Not yet good enough to join our ranks.”

 

The look of hurt that passed over d’Artagnan’s face appeared and then vanished in the span of a heartbeat, leaving the men wondering if it had actually been there at all, but the Gascon was already nodding in agreement even as he was putting down his cup and reaching for his sword, saying to Athos, “Shall we go again?”

 

Athos cast an appraising eye over the young man, not missing the stiff way in which he held himself, his gaze almost challenging even though his tone was even and he did his best to keep his expression neutral. Berating himself silently, he knew his friends had been right and no matter how much the boy might occasionally annoy him, he could not bear the underlying hurt that still shone in the Gascon’s eyes. Clearing his throat, Athos corrected, “What I meant to say is that he’s not ready _yet_ , but I have every confidence that with continued diligence, he one day will be.”

 

The look of hurt morphed into one of gratitude and d’Artagnan ducked his head, unsure of what to say to such openly offered praise, the likes of which he’d never before heard from the Musketeer. Unknown to him, both Porthos and Aramis were similarly shocked, but they managed to hide it better with a pair of identical satisfied grins. Deciding to take pity on the young man, Porthos moved forward, throwing an arm around the boy’s shoulders as he pulled the Gascon with him, “Come on, it’s time to work on your hand-to-hand skills. You won’t always have a pistol or sword handy, you know.”

 

As the two walked away, Aramis threw Athos a knowing look and the older man rolled his eyes in exasperation as he growled, “Don’t say it.” The marksman’s grin widened but he remained silent, happy that the older man was beginning to understand the role he held in the eyes of the young Gascon.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Athos’ bed, Aramis had sat down and was leaning over their friend, wiping away a single tear from Athos’ cheek. “Rest, my friend. We will all be here when you wake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those of you who continue to follow along with this story. Some interesting brotherly moments ahead!

Their next mission once again involved the fairer sex, but this time it was Athos, not Aramis, who was smitten by a woman. Ninon de Larroque was an unusual lady, steadfast in her beliefs that women should be both educated and independent, free to care for themselves and maintain ownership over their belongings rather than ceding control to a man. It didn’t hurt that she was beautiful and smart, making her a match for Athos’ intelligence and dry wit, even though the Musketeer would deny it to anyone who might suggest so.

 

Athos’ friends had been thrilled when the lady had taken an interest in their melancholy friend, wanting nothing more for him than a few hours of comfort in the arms of the warm and willing woman. The man himself had been resistant but it soon became clear that he returned noblewoman’s affections, going so far as to beg the Cardinal for her life when the man threatened to have her burned for witchcraft. The result had been bittersweet with Ninon avoiding death but not the loss of her lands, exiled to leave her friends and her title behind and live out her life in ambiguity. Although Athos had been able to keep his stoic façade in place when they’d parted, the knowledge that he’d had to bend to the Cardinal’s will in front of his friends weighed heavily and his first night back in Paris saw him heading for a tavern as soon as Treville had dismissed them.

 

Wordlessly, Porthos and Aramis fell into step several feet behind the older man, knowing that their friend didn’t want their company but also unwilling to allow him to be completely by himself once he began to drink. d’Artagnan stared at the men for a moment, having no idea what was going on, and then decided to follow in their wake, jogging slowly until he’d caught up with the two Musketeers before positioning himself on Porthos’ left side. Leaning closer to the large man, he asked, “Where are we going?”

 

Without taking his eyes off Athos, the large man replied, “With Athos.”

 

d’Artagnan rolled his eyes as he clarified, “And where is _Athos_ going?”

 

Porthos shrugged as he replied, “Probably one of the seedier taverns in town. Athos doesn’t like an audience when he’s drinkin’ to forget.”

 

The answer only prompted more questions for the Gascon, and in all the times that he’d watched the older man get drunk, he’d never travelled so far from the garrison to do so, “But we’ve seen him drunk many times.”

 

It was Porthos’ turn to roll his eyes at the young man’s naiveté until he remembered that the boy had never been around when Athos’ anguish was fresh and the sharpness of his hurt too much for him to bear without the dulling effects of wine. “This time’s different,” he said, knowing that his answer was likely still lacking in the Gascon’s eyes, but unwilling to say anything more as they continued following their friend.

 

d’Artagnan was tempted to press but the warning look on Porthos’ face was mirrored on Aramis’ as the marksman glanced over before quickly looking away, affixing his gaze once more on the older man’s back. For his part, Athos didn’t seem to be aware of their presence, or perhaps he just didn’t care, too focused on his need to dull his senses before whatever he was struggling with overwhelmed his ability to cope. To the Gascon, it seemed more than a little odd but he cared enough for these men not to abandon them due to a lack of information; like everything else he’d learned about them, he was confident that more would be revealed with time and he was willing to be patient…for a short while, at least.

 

They travelled quite a ways, Athos finally ducking into a tavern closer to the Court of Miracles than the garrison and d’Artagnan looked around uneasily as he followed the men in, stopping a moment just inside the door to let his eyes adjust to the almost non-existent light. When he was finally able to see more than shadows, he noted some of the establishment’s occupants with trepidation, warding off the advances of a weary-looking maid with a forced smile as he made his way quickly to the table where the two Musketeers now sat.

 

Porthos had positioned himself facing outwards, able to see anyone who approached as he kept a hand on the pistol he’

d laid on the table. Aramis sat facing Athos, his job clearly to keep an eye on the older man as he tried to drink himself into oblivion. d’Artagnan slipped into the remaining chair, casting looks to each side to ensure they weren’t attracting too much attention from the other patrons, but it seemed that this tavern was one where everyone minded their own business.

 

A glance toward Athos revealed that the man was already halfway through his first bottle of wine and d’Artagnan grimaced in sympathy, guessing at the poor quality of drink that was likely served here. A barmaid was already moving in their direction to drop another bottle in front of Athos, the man giving a small nod of acknowledgement as he emptied the first vessel of its contents. Leaning toward Aramis but keeping his eyes on the older Musketeer, d’Artagnan asked, “How much will he drink?”

 

The marksman offered a slight shrug, his eyes also firmly glued to their friend, a look of concern already etched into his features, “It’s difficult to say but a lot, I think.”

 

The Gascon stopped himself from huffing in frustration at the answers he’d been receiving, watching as Athos took another deep swallow, his shoulders slumping as he leaned on the table in front of him, the spirits beginning to have an effect. “I didn’t realize he and Ninon were that close.”

 

Porthos snorted in derision as he corrected, “Not Ninon; tonight is the Cardinal’s doin’.”

 

d’Artagnan turned a confused look toward the larger man, but he’d already fallen silent, Aramis sitting next to him nodding slowly in agreement. “What do you mean? The Cardinal allowed the woman to live,” the young man hissed.

 

“Yes,” Aramis conceded, “but only after Athos begged for her life. It cost him a great deal to do that.”

 

The Gascon leaned back in his chair, beginning to lose patience, and his sympathy for the older man quickly waning at what he’d heard. Was it truly possible that the great and noble Athos thought himself above begging for another’s life? Was it really the fact that the man had needed to plead with the Cardinal that had him so beside himself that he was planning to literally drown his sorrows in drink? The thought had him scoffing out loud, “You mean he’s too good to go to his knees before a man of God?” His tone clearly conveyed his disappointment at what he’d thought he’d just heard.

 

“Hardly,” Aramis responded sharply, the man having sat up straighter in his chair as he pinned d’Artagnan with a harsh look.

 

A glance at Porthos told him that the large man was equally as unimpressed and the young man swallowed uncomfortably at how the mood seemed to have swung against him. Forcing himself to adopt a more respectful tone, he asked, “What then?” d’Artagnan shifted his gaze between the two, hoping they would see his genuine desire to understand and help. “What is it that Athos is trying to forget?”

 

Porthos gave a resigned sigh as he replied, “You know how all of us feel about the Cardinal?” He paused a moment until the young man nodded. “Athos hates that he had to plead for Ninon’s life in front of us. The Cardinal is a vile man and Athos would go to his knees in front of him for any one of our lives, but he hates that we had to see him do it. He’s worried that we’ll think less of him for it.”

 

“What?” the Gascon began, confused that the older man could be concerned about what they thought of him.

 

“Athos has never felt worthy of our friendship,” Aramis explained. “He worries that this act may prove what he’s thought all along – that we should desert him and leave him to his own devices.”

 

“But…” d’Artagnan stammered as he searched for the words to convey his astonishment, “but that’s absurd. How could we think any less of him for saving the life of an innocent woman?”

 

It was Porthos’ turn to shrug, “Never said it made sense, but that’s Athos.” The words were spoken fondly and the Gascon could hear the undercurrent of care and concern they conveyed.

 

Once more Aramis was nodding and d’Artagnan was stunned to think that Athos, a man who’d been a Comte, might worry about what others thought of him. The Gascon recognized the irony, admitting to himself that the older man’s words meant a great deal and he’d found himself desperate to please the man, longing for any praise or approval he could garner through his actions. When he’d first realized how much Athos’ endorsement meant, he’d been horrified, believing himself weak to rely so heavily on the opinion of another, but as time had passed he’d come to recognize that his need for acceptance stemmed from a genuine respect for the other man, impressed by his abilities and truly wanting to learn from him.

 

He’d seen how the others at the garrison deferred to the older Musketeer, Athos’ skill matched with exceptional intelligence and a deep desire to protect those around him making him a natural leader despite his protests to the contrary. His actions spoke volumes and conveyed the man’s integrity, making it clear to everyone who came in contact with him that Athos was an honorable man; one willing to go into battle beside any of his brothers and do whatever was necessary to keep them safe. It was this core of inner strength and courage that drew others to him, the man himself often unaware of his appeal and too self-deprecating to admit that nearly everyone viewed him as Treville’s natural successor.

 

It was this man who had been shaken badly enough by the day’s events that he now sat drinking wine that was little better than swill, holding himself apart from the very men whose respect he worried he’d lost. The realization shook the Gascon and he knew that he would not move from his spot until Athos was safely returned to his rooms and once more reminded how much his friends thought of him. Shaking himself from his contemplation, d’Artagnan posed another question, “Should we not tell him that he is wrong; that nothing was lost?” In his mind, it was the simplest solution, and the one that would have Athos moving from the tavern and back to the safety and comfort of his rooms the quickest.

 

Porthos shook his head sadly as he said, “Athos wouldn’t believe us.”

 

“It’s true,” Aramis concurred. “When he gets like this, we have to show him and, unlike most things, this is one lesson that Athos is slow to learn, needing it repeated from time to time when something like this happens.”

 

d’Artagnan stared at the older Musketeer, noting the two empty bottles and the presence of a third half-empty one, desperate to help the man but without any idea of how. “So how do we show him?”

 

“Mostly just by bein’ here,” Porthos replied. “He’ll figure it out once he realizes we won’t leave ‘im alone no matter how drunk or nasty he gets.”

 

“Nasty?” the Gascon repeated, fearful of what that might entail.

 

“Athos possess a wicked tongue when he’s in one of these moods. He never means what he says, and rarely even remembers the insults he’s hurled, but it can be difficult sometimes,” Aramis explained, a somewhat pained expression on his face.

 

d’Artagnan gave a dip of his head in understanding, filing the information away and promising himself that he would not be deterred by any of his friend’s biting remarks. “How much will we allow him to drink?”

 

"Enough to deaden the senses but not enough to give himself alcohol poisoning,” Aramis stated with a sigh. “With Athos, it is a fine line, his tolerance being far higher than most normal men.”

 

Porthos offered a faint grin at the marksman’s words, “Yeah, but it shouldn’t take too long tonight at the rate he’s goin’.”

 

The large man's prediction proved accurate, the speed with which Athos consumed his wine along with the fact that his stomach was empty meant the alcohol hit his system quickly and he’d only made it partway through his fourth bottle when Aramis suddenly stood, Porthos tensing immediately at the look of concern on the medic’s face. With a nod toward the larger man, the marksman moved forward and pulled the bottle from Athos’ weak grasp, the older man needing several moments to realize what had happened.

 

“I’m not done with that,” he said with effort, reaching for the bottle which was being held out of his reach.

 

Porthos now stood beside his inebriated friend, laying a hand on his shoulder as he spoke kindly, “Aramis says you are. Can you stand?”

 

Athos had not even managed an attempt at gaining his feet before he found himself being lifted, Aramis and Porthos each pulling at an arm. Shaking the two men off angrily, he swayed where he stood, the larger man ready to grab him at a moment’s notice if it became necessary. “Can walk on my own,” Athos declared, taking a stumbling step forward that had Porthos reaching for him, stopping his downward motion.

 

Athos glared at the large man who remained patient as he suggested, “How about I help; just this once?”

 

The older man was obviously unhappy but didn’t push his friend away as Porthos ducked under an arm, placing his hand around Athos’ waist as they began to move toward the door. “Didn’t know you were so interested in being someone’s nursemaid,” the older Musketeer stated bitingly, clearly wanting to offend his friend.

 

“You’ve given me lots of practice,” Porthos replied easily with a grin.

 

The comment distracted Athos long enough to remove him from the tavern and to get them moving toward the safer side of Paris. As they walked, Aramis positioned himself on Athos’ other side while d’Artagnan took up the rear, unsure of the role he played and deciding his best contribution would be to keep watch as they wove their way through the mostly-deserted streets. For a while, Athos was quiet, the act of walking requiring all his attention given his impaired state. Then, the man’s breathing subtly changed and Aramis threw Porthos a look, both men noticing the paleness of their friend’s features and the sheen of sweat that now covered his face.

 

Seconds later, Athos was heaving, Porthos having steered them off to the side of the street and he now supported the man as his stomach expelled the sour wine he’d consumed. The sickness seemed to go on forever and d’Artagnan could only look on helplessly as the older man emptied his belly. When it was over, Porthos held both of Athos’ shoulders while Aramis pulled a handkerchief from somewhere and tenderly wiped their friend’s tearing eyes and mouth. The bout of illness seemed to have taken much of the fight out of the older man and he walked obediently when Aramis and Porthos nudged him into motion, each of them now carrying significantly more of his weight.

 

As they drew nearer to Athos’ apartments, Aramis asked the Gascon to go ahead and open the doors. d’Artagnan cast a fearful look at the older man and was moving swiftly to do as he’d been asked, deciding to also ready the man’s bed and place the chamber pot close in case it was needed. He’d just finished when the three men entered, Aramis and Porthos shouldering most of Athos’ bulk as they walked him over to the bed and sat him down at its edge. Aramis knelt down and reached for a boot, only to have it pulled from his grasp and the marksman looked up to see Athos’ bleary eyes trying to focus on him. “Don’ need a nursemaid,” he slurred as he slumped heavily into himself.

 

Porthos and Aramis traded patient looks and the latter reached again for a boot, only to have it pulled away once more before Athos swung it forward in a clumsy attempt to kick the man. Aramis was able to move out of the way of the uncoordinated move but scowled at the uncooperative man. Stepping forward to place a hand on Athos’ shoulder, Porthos tried to placate him, “Now, Athos, Aramis is only tryin’ to help.” The expression on the older Musketeer’s face suggested that he was unconvinced so Porthos changed strategies. “Alright, how about we get your belt and doublet off first.” Reaching for the first item as he finished speaking, he had to move quickly to avoid the elbow that Athos was throwing in his direction as he leaned forward.

 

The two men looked at Athos in consternation, unsure of how to proceed next as d’Artagnan stepped hesitantly forward, “Maybe I can try?”

 

Porthos shrugged as he glanced in Aramis’ direction, “Can’t hurt.”

 

The marksman made an “after you” gesture with one hand as he stepped back and allowed the Gascon access. d’Artagnan moved forward warily, reaching a hand out to undo the buckle of Athos’ belt and the older man took a swipe at him as he had at Porthos, but the young man had been ready and swatted the fisted hand away harmlessly. For several seconds, Athos’ face was confused before it turned to annoyance at having his attempts to stave off their help thwarted. As the Gascon pulled the belt free, handing it off to Porthos’ waiting hands, the older Musketeer spoke, “Sent in the boy, have you?” His words were accompanied by a scathing look in the direction of his other two friends which had Porthos shaking his head in mirth and Aramis grinning.

 

“Obviously he possesses skills of which we were unaware,” the marksman stated, impressed that d’Artagnan had succeeded where the two of them hadn’t.

 

Athos grunted and then clamped his mouth closed as he paled considerably, his breathing increasing as he battled the return of his nausea. Again the Gascon surprised them as he deftly reached for the chamber pot and placed it in Athos’ lap, holding the man steady as he retched helplessly. When he’d finished, d’Artagnan handed the soiled pot to Porthos who went to empty it, while Aramis handed him a damp cloth which the young man used to wipe the ill man’s face. When the Gascon had finished with the cloth, he handed it back to the waiting medic as he made a request, “Can you pour some water for him?” Aramis nodded and moved off to do as he’d been asked, taking his time as d’Artagnan took advantage of Athos’ temporarily docile nature and managed to remove his doublet and both boots.

 

By the time the two Musketeers had returned, the Gascon was sitting next to the older man, unobtrusively placing his shoulder against Athos’ upper arm to keep him upright. d’Artagnan reached for the cup of water at the same time as Athos, noting how badly the man’s hand shook, and he intentionally stayed silent, simply closing his fingers around Athos’ hand as he helped guide the cup to the man’s lips so he could drink. Rising, the young man took the cup from his friend and handed it back to Aramis, motioning to Porthos to help him lift Athos to his feet so they could remove his breeches.

 

The motion seemed to rouse the man, prompting him to protest. “Leave me be,” he roared, momentarily pulling himself free from Porthos’ grip as d’Artagnan struggled with his clothing; one leg was free, but the other was proving troublesome, Athos unwilling to shift his weight and lift the foot up. As the Gascon continued to tug, the older man’s balance shifted, Porthos reaching for him but missing, leaving Athos to drop to the bed, his one leg flailing and landing a solid kick to d’Artagnan’s chin. The blow forced the young man’s teeth together, causing him to bite his tongue, and his mouth filled quickly with blood. Unperturbed, d’Artagnan turned his head to the side and spat, quickly returning to pull the remaining pant leg from Athos’ foot and tossing the breeches aside into one corner.

 

"d'Artagnan, are you alright?” Aramis asked in concern, having seen Athos’ foot connect with the young man’s face and the glob of red that had followed seconds later.

 

“Fine,” the Gascon replied shortly, his entire focus on getting Athos into bed. Standing in front of the man, he leaned forward and placed a hand on each shoulder, pausing a moment until he was certain he had the man’s attention. “It’s time for you to lay down and get some sleep, Athos.”

 

The older Musketeer blinked at him blearily before he managed to summon the last of his energy to unleash one last scathing diatribe. “Why will you not listen to me when I tell you to leave me alone? And why are you here? You’re not even a Musketeer. Are you so desperate to be part of our number that you’ve taken to dealing with worthless drunks?” The words were cruel and just as unkind to himself as they were to d’Artagnan, but the Gascon remembered his earlier promise to himself and pushed aside his hurt feelings.

 

“Then you have made another error in judgement,” d’Artagnan stated evenly, pushing against Athos’ shoulder and guiding him to lay down on his side. “Neither I nor Aramis nor Porthos would waste our time on one who did not deserve it, and it is foolish of you to suggest such a thing.”

 

Athos looked at him through red-rimmed eyes, the effort of keeping them from sliding closed obviously a battle that he would be unable to win for much longer, but something about the boy’s words had surprised him and he needed to ask. “What was my first error in judgement?”

 

d’Artagnan kneeled at the head of the man’s bed and leaned in close as he answered, “Believing that we could think any less of you for doing what you had to in order to save an innocent woman’s life.” He squeezed Athos’ shoulder, letting his hand linger for several seconds before pulling it away and standing.

 

Three steps had him at Porthos’ side, the large man leaning toward him to say, “Good job, whelp.” The admiration was clear in the man’s voice and the Gascon couldn’t hide the ghost of a smile that graced his lips at having been able to help.

 

At Athos’ bed, Aramis had sat down and was leaning over their friend, wiping away a single tear from Athos’ cheek. “Rest, my friend. We will all be here when you wake.”

 

The older man seemed to sink lower into his pillow as his breath evened out into sleep, the three settling themselves around the room, none of them ready to leave their friend’s side.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He has no family left and everyone deserves to have someone who cares.” He turned his attention very purposefully on his friend as he said, “Suppose brothers are the next best thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the wonderful feedback on the last chapter. Hope you enjoy this next bit which includes the events of the morning after.

Athos awoke early, some of the wine apparently managing to stay in his system and leaving his bladder protesting loudly and urging him to rise regardless of how poorly he felt. As he pushed himself up onto one elbow, he noticed Aramis sitting next to his bed, the man still deeply asleep with his chin hanging down to his chest, and Athos winced in sympathy at the ache the man would later have in his neck. Athos’ head was throbbing angrily with the change in elevation and he bit his lip against the groan that threatened to escape, easing himself to a sitting position as he gingerly let one leg and then the other drop over the side so that he was sitting at the edge of his mattress.

 

He paused there for several moments, allowing his fragile skull to drop to his hands, cradling it in an effort to stem the persistent beat that hammered away in time with his heart. Once he was feeling somewhat confident that his head wouldn’t actually fly apart from the pain, he placed both hands on his mattress in preparation to stand, spotting Porthos in another chair with his feet on the edge of the table. The sight of the large man snoring, head thrown back against the wall behind him, drew the barest upturning of Athos’ lips as he realized that both of his brothers had stayed with him.

 

Pushing himself upright garnered him another spike of pain through his head and he closed his eyes tightly against it until the floor stopped swaying beneath his feet. Shuffling slowly forward, he was surprised to find another set of feet, these ones sticking out from underneath the end of a cloak, the rest of which was wrapped around a young man lying on the floor at the foot of his bed – d’Artagnan.

 

The Gascon’s presence was confusing and challenging to a mind already muddled by drink and a lack of sleep, and Athos lifted a hand to his disorderly hair, dragging his hand absently through the unruly mess. Given his current condition, it was obvious he’d been drinking, but that didn’t explain why the young man would have accompanied him back or, more importantly, why he would decide to spend the night; after all, his bouts of drinking were far too frequent to warrant his friends’ presence, Aramis and Porthos typically taking turns to ensure that he made it safely back to his rooms.

 

His head swivelled slowly between the three men, his mind gradually recognizing the implication of the men’s company, suggesting that the previous night’s drinking was somehow out of the ordinary and he racked his brain for any clues that might explain why they were there. His bladder took that moment to remind him of why he was out of bed in the first place and he completed his trip to the chamber pot to relieve himself before shuffling back to bed. By the time he returned and sat down, Aramis’ eyes were open and had clearly been examining him for any signs of discomfort. Wordlessly, the marksman handed him a cup of water and waited until he’d emptied it before taking it back and speaking, “I’ll make you a pain draught in a little while. Other than your head, how are you feeling?”

 

Athos allowed a quiet sigh to escape, Aramis’ question both annoying and warming him in equal measure, but he chose to answer honestly given the fact that his friend had elected to stay by his side through the night, “ Somewhat ill but it will pass.” The medic nodded, unsurprised that the older man’s stomach would still be upset. Athos looked around and asked, “Why is my room so crowded this morning?”

 

Aramis’ eyes clouded momentarily before realization dawned, and his features softened with sympathy, “What do you remember of yesterday’s events?”

 

Athos closed his eyes for a moment as he tried to remember, the memories flooding back seconds later and his breaths speeding up as he recalled what had happened. It was all there, locked into his memory despite the wine he’d drunk – the Cardinal’s mockery of a trial, Ninon’s look of despair, the look of triumph on Richelieu’s face when he’d sunk to his knees before the man and, in the background, the same three men who were now in his room. He dropped his head to his chest, this time in anguish as the humiliation of having to beg for Ninon’s life in front of his friends came back in sharp clarity, their presence now even more confusing to him than before.

 

“Athos,” Aramis spoke softly, a hand on his shoulder steadying him so he didn’t fall forward off the bed. “You acted with honor yesterday and kept a woman from suffering a horrible death.” Athos shook his bowed head, refusing to be swayed by the marksman’s words as his quick, ragged breaths continued. “Athos, do you trust me?” It took several seconds for the man to reply but he finally gave a shaky nod, Aramis squeezing his shoulder at the motion. “Then you must trust me now when I tell you that we are all here with you today because we care for you and nothing you do will change that.”

 

Athos continued to look down, Aramis’ hand a grounding presence on his shoulder and slowly, he found he was able to breathe more easily, the vice around his chest easing as he savoured his friend’s words. When he felt like he’d regained some measure of control over himself, he lifted his head to look into the concerned eyes of his friend and he offered another small nod to let the marksman know he was alright. With a final squeeze of Athos’ shoulder, Aramis removed his hand, watching carefully for any signs that the man might tip forward off the mattress. Drawing a slow, deep breath, some of the color seemed to be returning to the older man’s face even though his eyes were pinched in pain and the marksman stood, announcing, “I’ll get you that pain draught now.”

 

Athos was grateful for the time to be able to further collect himself, the headache and nausea making it difficult for him to feel fully in control and leaving him feeling vulnerable. But, he reminded himself, he was safe, in his apartments and surrounded by friends, and if the Gascon’s presence was any indication, the young man counted himself in that number, a realization that brought a flush of warmth to Athos’ chest.

 

“Here you go,” Aramis said as he handed the draught he’d mixed to Athos.

 

Sipping at the bitter drink, the older man said, “I’m surprised to see d’Artagnan here.”

 

Aramis threw him a look of mock exasperation as he challenged his friend’s statement, “Really?”

 

If Athos were honest with himself, he wasn’t really all that surprised and maybe relieved was a better word to describe how he felt about the boy’s presence. He’d already come to understand how the young man hung on his every word and yet, knowing that d’Artagnan had seen him at his worst and was still there made his heart swell with affection and pride. The latter emotion had initially caught him unaware, but he’d recognized snippets of it in the past weeks as the young man’s skills had blossomed under his mentorship and the Gascon’s confidence had swelled.

 

It had been a good feeling and one that Athos had not experienced for many years, not since his beloved brother had been so cruelly taken from him and he’d had no one left to teach. There had been other recruits, of course, but none of them had that special something that d’Artagnan did – passion, courage, dedication, loyalty. There were dozens of words that Athos might use to describe the boy but none of them did him justice and he could only conclude that it was the rare combination of all these traits that made the Gascon unique.

 

Realizing that Aramis was still waiting for a response, Athos took another swallow of his drink as he replied, “No, not really.”

 

The answer had Aramis grinning widely and Athos knew that it would cost him later, but found he didn’t care. d’Artagnan was a fine, hardworking young man who had talent and ambition and would someday make an excellent Musketeer. For the first time he recognized that he wished the Gascon to succeed as badly as the boy did and promised himself that he would do everything in his power to make the young man’s dream a reality.

 

It was at that moment that the subject of his attention stirred, rolling from his side to his back and flinging an arm up to cover his eyes as he returned to wakefulness. The two men watched as he lay quietly for nearly a minute before inhaling deeply and removing his arm, opening his eyes to the dim room that was just starting to lighten with the early dawn. Some sense must have made him aware of the fact that he was being observed and he abruptly pushed himself to a sitting position, propping himself up on one arm as he got his bearings.

 

The sight that greeted him was a welcome one and overcame any irritation he might have had at the fact that the two men had been staring at him while he slept. Aramis sat in the same chair next to Athos’ bed that he’d taken the previous night, his role of medic asserting itself as he insisted on staying close in case their friend needed him. Athos was seated on the side of his bed, drinking slowly from a cup and while his appearance was haggard, his countenance seemed far lighter than what the Gascon witnessed the previous night when the man had been weighed down by despair.

 

A faint smile graced d’Artagnan’s lips as he said, “Good morning, it’s good to see you awake.” As soon as he’d spoken, a hand flew to his chin, gingerly feeling at the spot that pained him and reminded him of his inability to avoid Athos’ foot the previous evening.

 

Athos’ eyes were immediately drawn by the action and he peered intently at the dark stain that covered the right side of the boy’s chin and travelled upwards along his jawline. The bruise seemed painful if the young man’s grimace was anything to go by and he wondered what had caused it. Seconds later, he guessed, seeing the look of guilt in d’Artagnan’s eyes which was mirrored in Aramis’ as the marksman glanced away. “I did that?” Athos asked, his voice no louder than a whisper, his tone indicating that he already knew the answer to his question.

 

“It’s nothing, Athos,” d’Artagnan hurried to assure him, dropping his hand to his lap to lend credence to his statement.

 

The older man stared at him for several seconds before looking down and swallowing thickly, remembering the cup in his hand and taking a sip while he dealt with his discomfort. Raising his eyes, he queried, “How?”

 

Aramis cleared his throat uncomfortably, recognizing the need for their friend to know the truth but still trying to find a way to soften the message, “You had no knowledge of what you were doing, Athos. The wine,” he paused to consider his words, “you drank very quickly and were unhappy about our interference.”

 

Athos’ eyes closed for a moment as he gave a dip of his head in understanding, waiting for the marksman to continue. Affixing a small smile to his face, Aramis explained, “You were quite adamant about not needing our help and would only allow d’Artagnan’s assistance in getting undressed. Unfortunately, you lost your balance while he was trying to help you out of your breeches, and…” he left the rest unsaid, motioning to the Gascon’s face.

 

“I should have been quicker to move out of the way,” d’Artagnan stated, determined not to allow the man to feel guilty for what had been an unfortunate accident. “It wasn’t your fault, Athos.” He held the older man’s gaze, infusing it with every ounce of resolve he could summon, willing his friend to believe him and to forgive himself. Finally, Athos gave a short nod, his features relaxing and the Gascon knew he’d succeeded, at least somewhat, in easing the older man’s mind.

 

“If we’re all caught up on who did what, I’m starvin’,” Porthos announced, dropping his feet to the floor and standing in one smooth motion. Three heads turned his way in surprise, prompting the large man to adopt an innocent expression as he asked, “What?”

 

The tension in the room was irreversibly dispersed, unable to stand up to the laughter that bubbled forth from the men’s chests at Porthos’ timely comment. In a heartbeat, he’d managed to divert their attention with such a wonderfully normal statement that it was impossible to return to the awkwardness of before, even Athos’ lips quirking with mirth. “I think we could all do with something to eat,” Aramis agreed once he’d stopped chuckling and stood, giving Athos a meaningful glance which was returned with a small nod, indicating the man was feeling well enough to try some food; and if he wasn’t able to manage much, he knew that his friends would not think any less of him for it. 

* * *

Four days later they were sent on a mission to Gascony, their purpose to capture a man named Labarge who’d recently killed two Musketeers during his rampage through the region. Despite that fact, d’Artagnan couldn’t help but feel a slight thrill of excitement at the thought of returning home, even though he well knew that they would not be travelling even close to Lupiac. He was proud of his Gascon heritage and looked forward to introducing his new friends to some of the foods of the region, confident that they would have at least a night or two at an inn where they could enjoy a warm meal.

 

Oddly, the closer they drew to their destination, the more unsettled he became, his thoughts turning more and more frequently to his father, the man’s absence making his grief almost palpable. By the time they’d reached the town where they were to apprehend Labarge, d’Artagnan had withdrawn into himself so fully that he responded only when directly addressed, his replies limited to a handful of words that had the three men visibly concerned.

 

When the Gascon had initially expressed his interest in introducing them to the flavours of home, the friends had smiled at his youthful enthusiasm even as they nodded in agreement, not wanting to dampen his spirits with the seriousness of their mission. The boy’s decline had been a gradual thing, and Aramis was the first to mention it to the others one night as they made camp and d’Artagnan had been sent to gather firewood.

 

_“Have you noticed how d’Artagnan withdraws from us?” the marksman had asked, surprising the other two who had to that point paid little attention._

_Porthos’ face was puzzled as he considered his friend’s question, having noted that the boy had been more subdued than normal but not having thought anything of it. He traded glances with Athos who shook his head, indicating that he hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary but was clearly worried now that Aramis had broached the subject. Deferring to Aramis’ observational skills, Porthos’ asked, “What’s got you worried?”_

_Aramis seemed unwilling to reply, now second-guessing himself after both men had indicated they’d seen nothing of concern, and he hesitated, worrying his bottom lip for a moment before answering, “He seems off.”_

_“Off, how?” Athos pressed, needing to hear specifics so he’d know what to look for._

_“Just off,” Aramis shrugged as he searched for the right words. “Quieter, not nearly as excited as when we set out. As though troubled by something.”_

_No one asked what might be troubling the boy, the three having discussed before they’d departed the wisdom of having the young man accompany them, all of them very aware of the fact that a return to Gascony might stir up memories of the elder d’Artagnan’s death._

_“He hasn’t said anything,” Porthos stated, his tone questioning as he waited for the other two to confirm that the Gascon hadn’t spoken with them either. At the headshakes he received, he sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face as he pondered the situation. “Think we oughta’ say something?”_

_Aramis seemed undecided but Athos’ answer was swift and sure, “No, he would have approached us if he’d wanted to talk.” Both men threw him startled looks but Athos understood what the others didn’t – he and d’Artagnan were more alike than anyone realized and the boy would not welcome their interest, viewing it as meddlesome prying rather than a desire to help. “When he’s ready, he will let us know.”_

They’d heard d’Artagnan approaching at that point and their conversation turned to mundane things as they worked cooperatively to start a fire, tend to the horses, and prepare a meal before settling down to sleep. Athos’ watch was the last one before dawn, preferring to rise early since he naturally did so anyway. The night had been quiet but now there were sounds of distress breaking the stillness of the early morning and Athos swallowed down a sigh as he moved stealthily to d’Artagnan’s side. The young man’s face was pinched, whatever dream he was having obviously distressing to him. Without conscious thought, Athos’ hand moved to the Gascon’s brow, tenderly pushing away the locks of hair that had fallen over his face as he slept. Settling it on the young man’s head, Athos’ thumb moved in soothing circles, smoothing away some of the furrows on d’Artagnan’s brow as he settled into a more restful sleep.

 

As he slowly eased away, he caught Porthos’ eyes on him but remained silent until he’d reached the larger man’s side and sat down. “Bad dream?” Porthos whispered, not wanting to disturb either of their sleeping friends.

 

“So it would seem,” Athos acknowledged, his eyes straying back to the young man’s lax face.

 

“He responds to your touch,” Porthos pointed out, wondering how his friend would react but the older man merely shrugged in reply, his expression neutral as if he had no opinion on the matter. “It’s a good thing,” Porthos continued. “He has no family left and everyone deserves to have someone who cares.” He turned his attention very purposefully on his friend as he said, “Suppose brothers are the next best thing.”

 

Athos continued staring at d’Artagnan but Porthos’ words had struck home and in that instant he knew without a doubt that he agreed with not only his friend’s statement but most importantly the underlying sentiment. The three of them were brothers, the bonds between them stronger than any familial bond, and the young Gascon had somehow inserted himself into their dysfunctional family; the only thing remaining was for him to gain his commission and formalize his place at their sides, but even without it, he was one of them. With a slow upturning of his lips, Athos’ breathed out, “Yes, they are.”

 

With a smile of his own, Porthos lay back down on his bedroll, leaving the older man to his thoughts as the first rays of dawn crawled their way across the inky sky.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos’ gaze moved from Porthos to Aramis, resolve shining brightly in their eyes. With a final nod of acknowledgement, he said, “Be safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful response to the last chapter. There's another look at present day events included in this chapter - hope you enjoy it!

The following day had them arresting Labarge, a task that was a feat in and of itself, the man as strong as a bull and completely without remorse, willing to do anything necessary to ensure his continued freedom. They’d been lucky and worked collectively to contain his brute force, walking away from the encounter with nothing more than the usual assortment of bruises that were par for the course whenever they engaged an opposing force. They departed for Paris immediately upon taking the man into custody, keeping their prisoner attached by lengths of rope and making him walk, thereby extending the amount of time needed to complete their journey but also tiring the man sufficiently to help keep him under control.

 

That night found them camped out under the stars, Athos unwilling to risk the safety of others by taking rooms at an inn. The temperature was mild and it would have been a pleasant experience if not for the dangerous prisoner they were escorting. The four friends surrounded the fire, Labarge secured to a thick tree several feet away, allowing the men some semblance of privacy as they shared a single bottle of wine among them, anything more forbidden by Athos until their mission was complete. They ate a meal of hard cheese and salted pork and would feed Labarge once they’d finished, the man’s foul mouth and earlier insults earning him little sympathy from his wardens.

 

d’Artagnan was still quiet and, despite Aramis’ and Porthos’ repeated suggestions to talk with the boy, Athos was steadfast in his refusal, adamant that the young man should be allowed space and time to work through his demons without interference. While the older man recognized that he would not be able to put his two friends off much longer, he was also beginning to worry as the Gascon’s appetite followed in the footsteps of his declining conversation, and the boy now ate barely enough to keep up his strength. Athos was well aware of the fact that Aramis had noticed as well and the medic wouldn’t stay silent much longer if d’Artagnan didn’t start eating more soon.

 

Wrapping up his half-eaten meal, d’Artagnan stood as he offered, “Want me to feed Labarge?”

 

Porthos’ expression was concerned, fearful that the Gascon would be unable to manage their prisoner, but Athos recognized that the young man needed something to focus on and nodded in agreement, “Only release one of his hands so he can feed himself, and stay out of reach of his feet.”

 

A small glimmer of the Gascon they knew and loved appeared as d’Artagnan rolled his eyes at Athos’ instructions, but he gave a nod regardless as he meandered over to the bound man. As the young man squatted down to untie one of Labarge’s hands, the man himself looked over at the Musketeers, watching with interest as three sets of eyes observed him even though they kept their distance and allowed d’Artagnan to complete the task on his own. “’Bout bloody time,” he snarled as he pulled his hand free, shaking it a few times to restore proper circulation after having it bound for most of the day.

 

d’Artagnan sat on his haunches in front and off to one side of the man, heeding Athos’ warning to stay out of range of his feet, and replied, “Maybe if you hadn’t been so rude earlier you would have received greater consideration.” He dropped a crust of bed and some cheese on the man’s lap, unwilling to waste any of their meat on the man, before leaning away again to watch him eat.

 

Labarge looked at the crust in disgust and picked up the cheese, biting off a chunk and speaking as he chewed, “I seen pigs eat better than this.”

 

The Gascon smirked a little as he answered, “Best get used to it; I can’t imagine the food in prison will be much better.”

 

The prisoner chewed silently for several seconds, noting the Musketeers’ discreet looks in his direction, obviously still checking that d’Artagnan had things well in hand. Motioning toward them with his head, he remarked, “Don’t seem to trust you much, do they?” d’Artagnan couldn’t stop the frown that appeared, his focus shifting momentarily from Labarge to glance back at his friends and catching them hurriedly looking away. “Is it because you’re too young and inexperienced to be a real Musketeer?”

 

d’Artagnan couldn’t help but bristle at the comment but wisely chose not to engage in a debate with the man, knowing that one of Labarge’s greatest weapons was his ability to provoke a fight. Biting off another piece of the cheese, he continued, “No need to answer, let me guess.” The man made a show of thinking before he grinned broadly and declared, “You’re an orphan and they feel sorry for you. That’s why they’re willing to let you stay with them and chase your dream of one day joining them, even though they all know it’ll never happen.”

 

The Gascon blanched, jerking backwards as though struck, and Labarge guffawed at the young man’s reaction, the response far exceeding his expectations. Athos turned and moved toward them immediately at the loud bark of laughter, seeing the stricken expression on d’Artagnan’s face and taking his arm, lifting him to his feet as he said to the others, “Watch him.”

 

He guided the Gascon over to the horses, a spot that was within sight of their camp but out of earshot of the men still seated there. Positioning them behind the horses, Athos placed one hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder while the other went to the young man’s chin, tipping it upward to make eye contact with the boy. Tears had pooled in the Gascon’s eyes and his lips were pressed tightly together in an effort to keep the moisture in his eyes from falling. Athos moved his one hand from the boy’s chin to the nape of his neck and d’Artagnan’s eyes closed as he revelled in the warmth of the touch, lips parting to draw several shaky breaths as he struggled to regain his composure. When his eyes opened, they were haunted and Athos’ heart clenched at the depth of anguish he saw reflected there. “How did he know?” d’Artagnan asked, his words barely above a whisper.

 

“How did he know what, d’Artagnan?” Athos asked, desperate to understand what had happened so he could help.

 

“About my father,” the Gascon replied, inhaling slowly. “He called me an orphan and said you keep me around because you feel sorry for me.”

 

Athos forced down the anger he felt, keeping all signs of it from his features. “There is no way he could have known about your father, d’Artagnan. I promise you that none of us have spoken to him about it and this was nothing more than a lucky guess on his part.”

 

He waited for several seconds as the young man processed his words, recognizing the truth in what the older Musketeer had said and releasing a long sigh. Athos knew that Labarge’s comments would not have normally unsettled the Gascon so, had it not been for the fact that d’Artagnan had been grieving for his father almost as soon as they’d set out for Gascony. Pushing aside his own advice, he said, “d’Artagnan, you’ve been troubled for many days now and we’ve been worried about you. Perhaps it would help to talk about what’s been bothering you?” He found himself holding his breath as the young man considered his offer, praying that d’Artagnan would choose to share his burden so he might begin to feel better.

 

Lip trembling, d’Artagnan breathed out a reply, “I miss my father.” The tears he’d been holding back earlier would be denied no longer and they now fell in heavy rivulets down the young man’s cheeks as he almost fell into Athos’ embrace, his knees going limp and the older man guiding them down to the ground, his arms still wrapped tightly around the Gascon’s body as he wept. The sobs were almost silent but racked the young man’s slight frame and Athos found himself transported in time to another moment when he’d held a young man through his sorrow.

 

_“Why, Olivier, why did they have to die?” Thomas asked, leaning into the strong arms of his older brother as his heart broke over the loss of their parents. Their deaths had been both sudden and unexpected and Olivier was now thrust into an overwhelming number of responsibilities, but none more important than that of older brother as his younger sibling cried, desperate in his despair. Olivier himself felt numb, having had no time to grieve himself given the enormity of the role he’d now inherited. While those who lived on the lands of La Fere were sympathetic, the daily affairs still required the Comte’s attention – his attention – and it was expected that nobles dealt with grief differently from common folk._

_As a result, he’d stood stoically at their parents’ graves, eyes clear and dry as his brother had crumbled to the ground, his grief overwhelming his capacity to cope. When everyone had offered their condolences, he and Thomas had remained, wanting a few minutes alone to say their final good-byes, and the tears had come back in full force, dropping his younger brother to his knees as he sobbed. Olivier gripped him tightly and offered the only consolation he could – his warm embrace and the promise of safety in his arms as he waited for Thomas to cry himself out. The minutes had dragged into hours, Thomas’ tears eventually drying up and the boy falling asleep in his brother’s arms, Olivier unwilling to wake him to the cruel reality of a world without their parents._

_One of their servants had come to check on them and understood the Comte’s message when he merely shook his head, continuing to cradle his sibling as the boy slept. The man returned several minutes later with thick, woolen blankets that Olivier recognized as two of their mother’s favorites and nodded his thanks as the servant draped one around his shoulders while the second was laid tenderly on top of his sleeping brother. Thomas had ultimately woken part-way through the night and they’d risen together, each supporting the other after hours spent on the cold ground as they made their way back to the house. That night the two had been unwilling to be apart and they found themselves crawling into their parents’ bed, their scents lingering on the linen and lulling the two boys to sleep._

 

The scene was oddly similar now as d’Artagnan had fallen into slumber within Athos’ embrace, Porthos covering them with blankets when it became clear that the older man was unwilling to move. He trusted that Aramis and Porthos would be able to manage Labarge on their own for a few hours; right now, his most important role was that of older brother and he would not shirk his duty now any more than he had on that night with Thomas. 

* * *

_ Present day: _

 

d’Artagnan guessed it was morning, the cool, dank cellar where he was being held allowing no outside light to come in and he had only the haggard appearance of the bandit standing before him to go by. The man’s hair was disheveled and his clothes looked as though they’d been slept in, and he now stood before the Gascon, rubbing his bloodshot eyes with one hand while the other rested on the pistol at his hip. The young man got a small degree of pleasure from the fact that his captor looked as though he’d gotten little sleep since the bandits had ensured the same for him, coming in periodically throughout the night to wake him with a random kick or slap.

 

He’d borne it all stoically, his mind focused on the fact that his friends would be coming for him; perhaps not last night, but now that morning was upon them, he knew it with a certainty he would never be able to explain to another. He had almost no memory of their journey to their current location, having finally been subdued by the men with a blow to the head that had left him barely conscious and muzzy headed for hours. As such, he was unable to gauge the level of difficulty faced by the men in locating him, but he had the utmost faith in their abilities and determination when it came to finding one of their own.

 

His attention was drawn back to the present as the bandit announced his readiness to begin, signalling another round of painful interrogation. He began similarly to the day before, the question he repeated the same but the Gascon’s head hadn’t cleared sufficiently to be able to answer even if he’d wanted to. “Where is the woman?” d’Artagnan didn’t even bother making eye contact, unable to recall who his captor was asking about and certain that no matter his answer, he would be rewarded with some form of physical torment. Moments later, his prediction was proven correct as his head whipped to one side with the force of the backhand that impacted his cheekbone. His mouth began to fill once more with the coppery taste of blood as his teeth reopened slices on the inside of his cheek that had barely begun to heal from the day prior. He blinked heavily against the tears that had sprung to his eyes from the blow as he tried to clear his vision.

 

"You are fast outliving your usefulness, _Musketeer_ ," his captor spat at him, the emphasis he placed on his title conveying nothing but disgust. “If you cannot provide the information we need, then there is no reason to keep you alive.” He emphasized his threat with two punches to d’Artagnan’s side, the young man grunting as he heard and then felt one or more of his ribs break under the man’s brutal onslaught.

 

The Gascon recognized the desperation in the man’s actions and the fact that he was quickly running out of time, a commodity he needed more than anything right now if his friends were to have any chance of finding him alive. Licking his dry lips, d’Artagnan was surprised at the hoarse croak that emerged when he tried to speak, “Wait.” The lack of water he’d had over the last twenty-four hours had left his throat parched and he coughed weakly at the sensation. “Jus’ wait,” he began again, concentrating on enunciating each word through his cracked and swollen lips. “I can tell you what you want to know,” he paused to catch his breath, “but you have to stop hitting me.” Swallowing thickly with no moisture to be found, he explained, “Hard to think when you keep hitting my head.” He allowed his chin to drop to his chest, praying that he’d managed to convince the man of his willingness to cooperate.

 

The bandit let out a huff of exasperation and paced first in one direction and then the other, coming to a stop in front of his prisoner again as he considered the young man. The Musketeer had been tough, proving more difficult than most to coerce, and it made him wonder if the man was being sincere or simply biding his time. If he was truly willing to answer, it would save them countless hours of fruitless searching, but if he was lying… “Very well,” the bandit decided. “You’ll have two hours to clear your head and then I expect you ready to answer.”

 

d’Artagnan’s head jerked shakily in a weak nod, prompting his captor to leave, the Gascon exhaling in relief at the short reprieve he’d bought for himself. Two hours was not much time and he had no idea how far his friends had to travel to reach him, leaving him only one other option – escape. Biting his lower lip, he began to pull in earnest at his bound wrists, feeling warm liquid covering them almost immediately as he further shredded the tender skin under the coarse ropes that held him. 

* * *

Although Porthos had grown up in the city, he’d learned from a young age to discern signs that were nearly invisible to others but that were integral to his survival in the Court; the tell-tale bulge under a man’s doublet that heralded a full purse, the glint in a person’s eye that signalled more carnal desires, the slight shift in a man’s body as he prepared to fight or flee. When he’d first joined the Musketeers as a recruit, his knowledge of people’s tells proved invaluable and enabled him to read the intentions of those around him, even extending to sparring practice when he fought against others with a sword or bare-handed.

 

When he met Aramis, the marksman had been intrigued by Porthos’ natural observational skills, which were similar to his own, but at the same time vastly different. As the two of them were paired together more and more frequently, the marksman intentionally pointed out things in their surroundings, gradually adding to Porthos’ skills until he surpassed his teacher in his ability to track prey, whether they were human or animal. As a result, the large man led them unerringly through the forested area surrounding the ambush site, continuing along the banks of a meandering stream where the trees had shrunk back and away from the waters and replaced by wild grasses and smaller bushes. Despite the mix of rocky and grassy terrain, Porthos never faltered and Athos sent a prayer of thanks for his brother’s gift which would enable them to find d’Artagnan as quickly as possible.

 

Still in the lead, Porthos suddenly slowed, taking a few more tentative steps before halting completely to look around before moving off to one side where a few lonely trees stood. The two men followed in his wake, crouching low to mimic the large man’s current position, eyes following the hand that pointed into the distance. Aramis’ sharp vision discerned the shape first, a lone man moving through the sparse cover in a pattern that could only be sentry duty. “Well done, my friend,” Aramis stated, laying a hand briefly on Porthos’ upper arm at having located the bandits.

 

Both men turned their attention to Athos, naturally deferring to him to plan their next steps. “We need more information,” the older man stated quietly, already selecting their best vantage points from which to view the bandits’ camp and to remain unseen by their eyes. It was decided that each man would approach from a slightly different direction, Aramis travelling the farthest to skirt around and scout from the opposite direction. They would leave the horses tethered where they’d stopped and slip stealthily away, each of them taking advantage of the natural cover available before regrouping to share what they’d learned.

 

They were quick to reconnoitre the area, meeting again a scant fifteen minutes after they’d separated. Athos looked to each of his friends to hear what they’d discovered. “Three men on sentry duty, each facing a different direction; well-disciplined and paying attention to their surroundings. There’s more camped out in the barn but I couldn’t see how many,” Porthos began.

 

Aramis gave a nod of agreement as he added, “At least three distinct voices in the barn and I counted twelve horses in total. The east side is our best entry point since the sentry there will be forced to look into the sun. The property backs onto another forested area.”

 

Mulling over what he’d heard, Athos shared his own observations, “There were two men conversing at the side of the house and their leader has likely taken it for himself.” The older man fell silent knowing that they were badly outnumbered but, like him, Aramis and Porthos would want to press forward regardless, rather than going back for reinforcements; seeing the looks of determination on his friends’ faces, he wondered momentarily how it had come to be that he’d gained such stalwart brothers.

 

“Alright,” he said, his mind made up, “we’ll take out the sentries first and then converge on the barn.” The two men nodded in agreement, recognizing that their plan would require them to quietly kill their opponents in order to maintain the advantage of surprise and tip the scales in their favour. “From there we take the house and question the leader.”

 

Athos’ gaze moved from Porthos to Aramis, resolve shining brightly in their eyes. With a final nod of acknowledgement, he said, “Be safe.” With that, they were off, again moving in different directions, hopefully to be reunited shortly to make their coordinated assault on the house and, most importantly, locate the missing Gascon.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos reached forward to clasp d’Artagnan’s arm where it rested on the table between them, his voice wavering as he declared, “I am proud of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to apologize now for the way this chapter ends. If you survive the fall of the cliff, I'd love to hear your thoughts - enjoy!

_ Months earlier: _

 

The events following their successful return to Paris were nearly dizzying in nature, Labarge having been taken from them by the Red Guards, only for the man to almost escape. This led them to a confrontation with the Cardinal’s Guard when they accused the four of causing their Captain’s untimely death. Next was the excitement that was spurred by Treville’s announcement of the contest between their regiment and Richelieu’s, followed swiftly by d’Artagnan learning of his farm’s fate, deflating the boy and making him desperate to be allowed to compete so he might have a chance at winning the money he needed to be able to stay in Paris.

 

While Athos’ intentions had been sound, his timing had been poor, and he’d goaded the young Gascon with news of Labarge’s imprisonment in the Bastille shortly after the boy had found out about the loss of his property. Although the older man had taken Treville’s order to watch the young man to heart, he’d nearly arrived too late to save him, Labarge holding d’Artagnan’s neck in preparation to break it when Athos arrived on the scene.

 

He’d managed to keep his voice and his hand steady as he’d aimed at pistol at Labarge and ordered him to release the young man, but afterwards his limbs had shaken with adrenaline, the fact that he’d almost witnessed d’Artagnan’s death rattling him to his core. He’d sent the boy away with a promise to train the following day, admonishing him and admitting that the two of them were more alike than others realized; it was the first time Athos had acknowledged it to anyone but himself and the realization that he’d spoken the words out loud had startled him anew.

 

Milady had reappeared as well, her revelations to Athos surprising him but shocking him less than he’d expected now that was aware that she’d survived. Her intervention in d’Artagnan’s fate proved fortuitous, providing him with the means to enter the contest, even though Treville ultimately assigned the role of regiment champion to himself after uncovering the Cardinal’s deceit. In the end, the Musketeers triumphed but, most importantly, d’Artagnan’s drive to do what was right protected their Captain from further injury and offered the opportunity for him to demonstrate his readiness to become one of them, something which the King also recognized.

 

d’Artagnan had seemed stunned, completely uncomprehending of what was about to happen when the King told him to kneel. Athos had struggled to keep the grin off his face as he nudged the boy into action before the tempestuous monarch changed his mind. A minute later, the young Gascon was part of the regiment, having received his commission and Athos himself affixing the leather pauldron to the boy’s shoulder. The smile of pure joy that adorned d’Artagnan’s face when he rose incited a mix of emotions in Athos, feeling at once both incredibly proud of the young man for his accomplishment while at the same time feeling concerned for the perilous life he would now lead. He’d managed to keep his conflicted emotions from his expression as he firmly grasped the Gascon’s arm in congratulations for his achievement.

 

That night the garrison celebrated, the evening eerily similar to Porthos’ birthday with the large man drinking just enough to demonstrate his trick as a gift to the newly-commissioned Musketeer. Afterwards, the three men kept a close watch on the amount of alcohol Porthos consumed, none of them wanting a repeat of earlier events. At some point in the evening, they made their way to Athos’ apartments, ostensibly under the guise of keeping the larger man out of trouble, but the older Musketeer had something different in mind. He’d been keeping a careful eye on d’Artagnan and, while the boy seemed genuinely pleased at the day’s outcome, there was also something hiding beneath his façade of happiness that had Athos concerned.

 

Hours later found Aramis and Porthos both passed out, Athos and d’Artagnan sipping a smooth brandy at the older man’s table, the silence settling over them comfortably as each was lost in their own private thoughts. Even though it was against his nature, Athos pushed aside his discomfort and broached his topic of concern. “Despite receiving your commission today, you seem subdued.” He allowed the words to drop into the space between them and took a taste from his glass, letting the quiet prompt the Gascon into speaking.

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes had widened in surprise at Athos’ comment and then he followed his friend’s lead, sipping at his brandy as his expression turned contemplative. It took several minutes of patience on the older man’s part before he was rewarded by a few brief words from the young man. “It was not as I imagined it.”

 

Athos considered the Gascon’s reply and the different ways in which he could interpret the words. Had he imagined that the attainment of his commission would ease all of his other worries, perhaps providing the push needed to make Madame Bonacieux his? Was it that he was now experiencing doubt about his chosen path and didn’t know how to gracefully change his mind and resign? Or was it that someone was missing from the picture, a person whose absence had the ability to cast a shadow over the day, regardless of the magnitude of his achievement? Taking a sip and savoring the taste for a moment before he swallowed, Athos’ eyes drifted across the young man’s countenance and he decided on the last explanation as the most likely. Slowly topping up first the Gascon’s and then his own glass, Athos ventured his guess, “He would be exceptionally proud if he’d been here to see you gain your commission.”

 

d’Artagnan was momentarily startled by the statement before he offered a small nod of agreement, fortifying himself with another small swallow of the fiery drink. “I’d like to think so,” he breathed out softly, barely loud enough for Athos to hear.

 

Steeling himself, Athos plowed ahead, determined that the young man would understand that a father’s pride was not a fleeting thing, unstoppable even by death. “I often wondered what my father would think of my choices,” he began, unlocking a place deep within that he’d rarely shared with others. “He was a very strict man and had strong ideals about what was right and wrong. In his mind, there was never any doubt about my destiny and it was reinforced daily with every carefully orchestrated lesson, introduction, and experience I had growing up.” He’d dropped his eyes to his lap as he’d spoken, now lifting them again to see that he had d’Artagnan’s rapt attention, the young man drawn in by this rare look into the older man’s past.

 

Fortifying himself with another sip of brandy, Athos continued, “I was still quite young when he and my mother passed.” Observing the Gascon for a moment, he conceded, “I was likely very close to your age. Despite the circumstances of their death, my father’s title and responsibilities immediately fell to me and I felt myself faltering under the weight.” He paused to take a steadying breath as he forced himself to stay calm regardless of the impact of the memories he was sharing. “My valet, Gerard, spoke to me of his son one night, relating a story of how the boy had pursued his own path and how proud he was of the young man for making his own way in the world. Then he talked to me of my father, having been his valet before he was mine, and he shared the moments of pride my father had experienced at my accomplishments.”

 

Athos took a drink from his glass as he locked gazes with the Gascon. “He reminded me that my father would be looking down at me from heaven, just as proud of the man I had become as he had been of the accomplishments of my past, because that is what fathers do. Have no doubt, d’Artagnan, that your father is gazing down on you now with that same paternal pride.” The young man’s eyes were bright with unshed tears, his breathing slightly quickened at the words the older man had shared. Athos reached forward to clasp d’Artagnan’s arm where it rested on the table between them, his voice wavering as he declared, “ _I_ am proud of you.”

 

Athos fell silent and kept his hand where it was, giving the Gascon the time he needed to process what he’d heard and offering comfort without judgement. After a minute, d’Artagnan closed his eyes tightly, a lone tear escaping to slip lazily down the side of his face as he took first one deep breath and then another, before opening his eyes to meet Athos’ gaze. “Thank you,” he whispered, feeling both lighter and wrung out at the same time from the drama of the day.

 

The older Musketeer dipped his head in acknowledgement, squeezing d’Artagnan’s forearm before releasing his hold. They emptied their glasses in companionable silence before Athos stood and offered the young man a blanket from his chest, the Gascon taking it with a nod of thanks and settling himself on a pallet on the floor. As he retired to bed, Athos looked around the room with a soft smile on his face, the sight of his brothers warming him, and wondered once more what his father would think about the life he now led.

* * *

_ Present day: _

 

Porthos had moved swiftly and silently toward his assigned sentry, his stealth belied by his size but fueled by a burning desire to have d’Artagnan safe and back in their company. The bandit he attacked had no sense of the Musketeer’s presence until it was already too late, Porthos’ razor sharp blade sliding across the man’s throat, allowing him to release nothing more than a loud sigh of surprise before his legs folded and he fell to the ground. The large man wiped his dagger on the dying man’s doublet, his face turned upwards even as he leaned over, ensuring that no one managed to catch him unaware. He could just make out Athos’ form through the sparse trees that surrounded them and watched impassively as the older man’s target was lowered silently to the ground before Athos stood up and began to make his way to the barn where they were to meet.

 

Porthos picked his own path through, needing to skirt around the small collection of buildings in order to stay out of sight. When he arrived at his destination, he was happy to see Athos already waiting, leaning against a side wall as his eyes continuously swivelled to observe their surroundings. Porthos gave the older man a quick nod of acknowledgement, taking his place at his friend’s side to look for any sign of their third, his anxiety easing just a notch when he spotted the marksman’s approach.

 

They wasted no time and moved fluidly away from the side of the barn, slipping around from both directions in order to take the men inside by surprise with their two-pronged attack. In the time it had taken them to plan, two additional men had arrived, bringing the total up to five. Fortunately, one of the men was caught in the compromising position of using the chamber pot while another was in the process of pulling on a shirt, making him unaware of the Musketeers’ presence until his head had passed through the neck of his garment and he was met with the butt of Porthos’ pistol, the heavy wooden grip smashing into the bandit’s face.

 

The three men looked around in satisfaction at the men that littered the ground, their opponents having fallen quickly and quietly. Aramis touched a finger to his forehead, a stinging above his left eyebrow calling his attention to a spot that was seeping blood. He winced as the touch elicited a sharp throb, squinting his eyes for a moment against the sensation. Porthos leaned closer to have a look, raising a questioning brow at the split skin. “Head butt,” Aramis whispered, grimacing with a combination of pain and embarrassment at having been struck by one of the men.

 

The large man gave a short nod, pulling a kerchief from inside his doublet and handing it to the marksman. “Not too bad,” he stated softly. Aramis took the cloth gratefully and pressed it to the cut for several seconds, stemming the flow of blood enough to keep it from obscuring his vision. Tucking the handkerchief away, he indicated his readiness to go, stepping forward to look out and around the edge of the barn door, confirming that their path was clear.

 

The marksman led them out, Athos overtaking him quickly and guiding them to the front of the small house. The two bandits he’d seen earlier were still at the side of the building, taking shelter from the growing heat of the day. With a nod to his friends, Athos raised his fingers to let them know how many they would be facing. They descended on the men quickly, Porthos clasping his hand over one man’s mouth and holding his dagger to the bandit’s throat, while Athos dispatched the second man with a fearsome right hook. When he’d finished with his man, the older Musketeer looked at Porthos in appreciation since they would now have a bandit they could question before entering the house.

 

Stepping forward, Athos asked lowly, “How many of your group are inside?”

 

The bandit’s brow furrowed and he shook his head, indicating his unwillingness to talk. The older man glanced at Aramis who stepped forward, placing his dagger into a delicate spot on their captive’s body. The man’s eyes widened in fear and he nodded vigorously.

 

“Quietly,” Porthos warned before removing his hand so the man could speak.

 

“It’s just Maurice inside,” the bandit’s words spilled out. “He was in the cellar with the boy.”

 

All three men perked up at the man’s words, having no doubt that the boy had to be d’Artagnan, unquestionably being interrogated by the group’s leader.

 

“Has the boy been hurt?” Porthos asked, pressing his blade menacingly against the delicate skin of the bandit’s throat.

 

The man pulled his head back further in an attempt to escape the Musketeer’s blade as he swallowed carefully and said, “Maurice beat ‘im but nothin’ too serious.” His eyes pleaded with Porthos to believe him and the large man exchanged looks with his friends before both he and Aramis pulled their daggers away and stepped back.

 

The bandit’s relief was short-lived as Athos landed a solid blow to the man’s head with his pistol, allowing him to lay where he’d fallen against the side of the house. They moved as one around the corner of the building, climbing the two steps to the front door and easing their way in without a sound. The front room where they now stood was dimly lit, the curtains still pulled shut against the morning sunlight, but the space was otherwise bare. There was little option but to move forward into the kitchen, which eventually connected to a small bedroom in the back. The house was empty and there was no sign of Maurice or the Gascon. “Where’s the door to the cellar?” Aramis whispered, looking around furtively to ensure they hadn’t missed anything during their initial examination of the space.

 

By unspoken agreement, the men separated, each taking a different section of the house to comb through a second time. It was Aramis’ keen eyes that spotted the faint border of the trapdoor, the outline of which was nearly invisible against the dark and dirty planks that made up the floors of the house. Porthos and the marksman positioned themselves on either side of the entrance, fitting their daggers into the slim space between the door and the floorboards to push the hatch open and reveal the dark space beneath.

 

The Musketeers could see nothing more than the top few steps of a ladder that was attached to the wall and Porthos moved quickly to remove a lantern from a hook by the front door, lighting it and holding it up above his head to illuminate the cellar’s entryway. The extra light did little to dispel the gloom below but Athos was tired of waiting, his need to find the Gascon overwhelming his usual self-control as he stepped onto the top rung. Aramis positioned himself to follow, his pistol pointed downwards to cover the older man’s back as he descended.

 

Athos descended as quietly as he could, balancing the need for speed with the need for caution as he stepped off the ladder and stood in the nearly black space, wishing he’d thought to bring the lantern with him. As though reading his mind, Aramis took the light from Porthos and was the next to come down, the older man placing his back to the wall and keeping his pistol pointed outwards. As soon as the marksman had joined him on the ground, Porthos was in motion, his movement stilled by a hand from Athos after only descending a few feet. Despite his desire to join the two men, the large man acquiesced to Athos’ wordless request to remain where he was, ensuring that no one could come into the house and trap them in the underground space.

 

Aramis and Athos moved forward, surprised to find themselves in a fairly large storage area which was partitioned off from another space by a heavy wooden door. The entry drew both men forward, Athos positioning himself to enter while Aramis pushed the door open. The marksman was only a heartbeat behind his friend, nearly gagging at the strong smell of urine, sweat and blood that permeated the small room. As Aramis lifted the lantern higher, the men’s eyes were pulled to the coarse rope that hung from the ceiling. “Mon Dieu!” the marksman exclaimed with a gasp, unable to process the tableau laid out before them.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sob worked its way up the older man’s throat, and he swallowed it back down as he forced himself to follow in his friends’ footsteps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the cliffhanger in the last chapter. To make it up to you, I'm happy to give you an entire chapter that focuses just on present day events - hope you enjoy!

_ Present day: _

 

The cost to d’Artagnan had been great, but after fighting determinedly with his bindings for over an hour, he finally managed to slip one hand free. He brought the arm closer to his face to see the tender skin around his wrist all but shredded from his desperate struggles, his arm covered in rivulets of blood where the precious fluid had snaked in winding trails all the way to his shoulder. His other arm was still held fast in the rope that bound him and he tried to use his free right hand to untie himself, but lacked the necessary feeling or coordination in the limb to accomplish the task.

 

In a last frantic move, he used his body weight to exert extra force on the rope, hoping that his hand might be released as a result. As he intentionally allowed his body to drop back on his heels, he felt the release of pressure above him, his left arm falling limply to his side, followed seconds later by a fiery burn in his shoulder, the agony of which was powerful enough to override the numbness he’d experienced after being bound in the same position for so long. His actions had freed him from his bindings, but it had not been only the rope that had given, but instead, his arm had been pulled from its socket moments before the hook to which the rope was attached slipped free from the ceiling above him.

 

The Gascon whimpered as the ache in his shoulder spread, curling inwards around the damaged joint as he cradled his left arm close to his body. It took several minutes of gentle rocking, as he panted against the pain, before he was able to straighten up and blink the tears from his eyes. Squinting in the dim light, he examined the knot that held the rope in place around his left wrist before using a combination of his right hand and his teeth to release himself.

 

As much as he wanted nothing more than to lie down on the floor and close his eyes, he was nowhere near safe, and he owed it to his brothers to escape and stay alive until they could come for him. Gritting his teeth and holding his damaged limb with his right hand, he pushed himself upwards, staggering almost immediately against the back wall where he kept his body upright through sheer force of will. The action had him breathing heavily against the pain, his legs deadened and weak after kneeling for over a day, and the other aches in his body adding their voices to the cruel crescendo of pain that was building within him. Again, he lost time as his vision darkened and he stood with his back bowed, fighting against the feebleness of his body after enduring so much abuse.

 

Finally, he managed to lift his head from his chest, vision still dimming but steady enough that he was ready to attempt his first steps. His progress was shaky but his legs moved forward, bringing him to the door of his prison where d’Artagnan placed a trembling hand on the doorknob, praying that his captor had been overconfident enough to leave it unlocked. As the door began to move, he released a deep exhale, thanking whoever was watching over him now. In his head, he could almost hear Athos’ voice answering him, _“Your father watches over you, always, and he will be with you whenever we cannot.”_

 

The thought brought a slight smile to the Gascon’s face, shifting to a wince moments later as the action pulled on his split lip and caused it to bleed anew. “Maybe you’re right, Athos,” he muttered hoarsely to himself as he ducked his head out through the partially open doorway to confirm that he was alone. He was jarred from his reverie seconds later as the trapdoor above him was pulled open and booted feet landed on the top rung of the ladder. Hesitation gripped him as he considered what to do, recognizing that he had no advantage available to him but that of surprise, his body weakened too greatly to fight due to the poor treatment he’d received.

 

Without further thought, d’Artagnan launched himself forward, the boots he’d seen having moved down a couple of rungs to coalesce into the body of a man. Ruthlessly, he grabbed at the man’s legs, pushing to the side with all his strength and managing to topple the bandit from the ladder to fall heavily to the ground. In his fragile state, the Gascon followed the man to the floor, unable to prevent himself from falling on top of his captor and then laying there for several seconds before he recovered enough to be able to move. Rolling off the bandit’s body, d’Artagnan was pleased to find the man unconscious and he could only hope that his tormentor would remain that way long enough for him to escape.

 

Rising to his feet for a second time almost undid him and the climb up the ladder had his head spinning dizzily, nearly bringing him to his knees when he reached the top; it was only dogged determination and willpower that kept him standing, knowing that the next time he fell, he would be unable to rise. He was fast losing his ability to think clearly as well as his ability to function, and he looked around the house he now found himself in, blearily taking in the few features he could discern. Although his mind was muddled by exhaustion, dehydration and several blows to the head, he knew enough to avoid the front door and headed away from it, his stumbling gait bringing him to the bedroom in the back of the house.

 

The room had a small window and presented his best chance of exiting unseen, so he tugged at it with his good hand, biting his bottom lip as the motion jarred his other injuries. He took a quick look to each side through the opening he’d created and, when he saw no one, levered his aching body outside, having to pause and hold himself up on the window sill as the ground tilted beneath his feet. Taking a steadying breath, he focused as best as he was able on the trees that he saw and headed toward them as quickly as his body could manage.

 

Once past the treeline, the growth around him quickly turned denser and he lurched from one tree to the next, bouncing off the trunks painfully in an effort to remain on his feet. His vision was worse now and he was feeling confused, consumed by the need to keep moving but unable to recall the reason why. Another step had him falling heavily against another tree, only the wood’s solid presence preventing him from landing on the ground. He took a moment and squinted at his surroundings, searching for anything familiar, but there was nothing, his sight presenting him only with fuzzy, distorted images.

 

With a sigh that tugged uncomfortably on his sore ribs, he pushed away from the tree he was leaning against, managing a handful of steps before his foot found open air. The lack of solidity beneath his boots didn’t even register with his jumbled mind before he felt himself falling, hitting the ground with an unrelenting force that drove the breath from his lungs and made his world jolt precariously around him. Closing his eyes against the sensation, his body continued its haphazard tumble down the steep incline which he’d failed to discern, before finally coming to a halt against the base of an immovable tree trunk. The Gascon lay there, quiet and unmoving, the only indication of life being his shallow, shuddering breaths and the trickle of blood that wound down his temple and soaked into his hair. 

* * *

Aramis’ exclamation verbalized the emotions that threatened to devastate Athos as he stood next to his friend, taking in the empty room; the hook from which a solitary rope still dangled, its mate laying on the ground, the once golden strands darkened in far too many places by blood – d’Artagnan’s blood. Despite the Gascon’s absence, the older man had no doubt that it had been the boy’s blood which had stained the rope and the knowledge sent a new spike of anxiety through his chest.

 

“Where is he?” Aramis asked, ripping his eyes from the ropes and hooks that must have imprisoned their friend to look at Athos instead.

 

Inhaling shakily, the older Musketeer replied, “We will find him.” The statement left no room for doubt and the marksman found himself nodding absently even though they had no more clues to follow. Athos turned on his heel and strode from the room, Porthos calling to him at his approach.

 

“Where’s d’Artagnan?” the larger man asked, his voice tinged with the faintest note of worry as his mind began to imagine the worst.

 

Athos remained silent and began climbing the ladder, forcing Porthos to exit as well and he stood on the main floor as he waited for Aramis to join them. Porthos’ questioning look at the marksman gained him the reply he’d been waiting for.

 

“He’s not there,” Aramis stated, watching as Athos moved around the room, seemingly looking for something.

 

Porthos’ expression turned to puzzlement as he repeated, “He’s not there; where is he?”

 

The marksman shrugged, still keeping an eye on the older man who was now moving further into the house and he followed, Porthos falling in behind. When they caught up with him, Athos was standing at the bedroom window, looking out beyond the clearing in which the house stood with his eyes firmly on the trees beyond. “Athos?” Aramis ventured, his tone tentative and uncertain about what was happening.

 

Athos pointed to the window sill and then to the treeline, “There’s blood on the sill. It’s likely he escaped through here and headed for the trees.”

 

Aramis and Porthos exchanged looks before the latter said, “Then we’d best get after him. No tellin’ what other trouble he’ll find.” The comment was meant to lighten the mood but Athos’ expression only darkened as his fear for the Gascon increased. Rather than wasting time on apologies, Porthos led the way out, the men quickly gathering their horses and riding to the wooded area that Athos had pointed out. Porthos dismounted before they passed beyond the tree line, searching for tracks and confirming Athos’ suspicions that someone had recently passed through. With his brow furrowed in concern, he looked up at his friends from where he crouched beside the boot prints he’d found, informing them of his discovery, “There’s two sets of tracks here.”

 

Both men understood the significance of Porthos’ words and motioned for him to continue, the large man choosing to stay on the ground and lead his horse so that he was better able to follow the trail. As they continued forward, Aramis asked about the look of confusion on the larger man’s face. With a sigh, Porthos’ explained, “The tracks are all over the place.” At his friends’ matching looks of puzzlement, he added, “They’re meandering everywhere. Whoever left these seemed to be having a hard time walking in a straight line.” Even though Porthos hadn’t said, “d’Artagnan was all over the place,” the men comprehended his meaning regardless, again recognizing the implication of the information he’d shared.

 

Athos gave a short nod that encouraged the large man to move faster, and Porthos did his best to increase his speed while still looking for signs of the trail he was following. Minutes later, Porthos and Aramis stopped in their tracks, Athos looking between them in confusion even as the marksman was pulling his harquebus free from its holster. Ahead stood another man, his arm raised and his pistol pointing downwards at some unseen spot. Although they had no proof, they were certain that this was their missing bandit who was believed to have been inside the house with d’Artagnan.

 

Trusting that Aramis had the man in his sights, Athos called out, his sense of honor preventing him from killing the man outright without at least giving him the opportunity to surrender. “Maurice,” he called, guessing correctly at the man’s identity as the bandit turned his head to face them. “You are under arrest. Put up your pistol and prepare to be taken into our custody.”

 

Maurice stared at them for only a heartbeat, his head beginning to turn back to his unseen target, Aramis’ finger curling against the trigger as he fired. The man’s form crumpled a second after the sound of the marksman’s shot, the bandit’s pistol remaining mercilessly quiet. Athos was in motion immediately, sliding from his horse and moving toward the fallen man, Porthos a half-step behind him as Aramis re-holstered his weapon before following.

 

They approached cautiously, eyes fixed on the bandit’s hand lest it move and reach for his pistol, but it soon became apparent that Maurice would not be doing anything ever again, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ground underneath his cheek as blood trickled slowly from the entry wound on his back. Athos could not spare any sympathy for the man, satisfied simply that the bandit was no longer a threat and eager to see what he’d been aiming at. He was surprised to find himself at the edge of a steep drop and, as his eyes drifted downward, his breath caught in his throat. d’Artagnan!

 

The Gascon’s body lay many feet below their current position, and it was impossible to tell whether the boy still breathed. Throwing himself into motion once more, Athos slipped and skidded down the side of the hill, steadying himself by latching onto the occasional bush or tree branch as he passed. Before he knew it, he stood over top of d’Artagnan’s body, frozen by the panic that the young man might be dead. Porthos and Aramis were at his side seconds later, a quick glance in his direction confirming that he hadn’t yet checked for signs of life.

 

Crouching down beside the Gascon, Aramis crossed himself briefly, sending up a prayer that their friend was still alive. He reached forward a trembling hand which found its way to d’Artagnan’s neck, waiting for several moments before he could be confident that the boy’s heart still beat. “He’s alive,” he breathed out, speaking directly to Athos as he knew the older man would be undone if the young man were to die. Athos dropped his head in relief, the world swimming for a moment before his eyes as he was struck by the enormity of Aramis’ declaration; his brother still lived.

 

Opening eyes which he hadn’t realized had closed, Athos refocused on the marksman, the man having slipped into his role of healer as he now tried to rouse their unconscious friend. “d’Artagnan,” Aramis called, his hand tapping gently on one cheek, doing his best to avoid the plentiful bruising. “d’Artagnan, it’s Aramis. Open your eyes for us.” He was rewarded with the barest of groans, the response encouraging him to continue. “d’Artagnan, I know you’re tired and sore but I need you to wake up and tell me where you’re hurt.”

 

The Gascon’s eyes began to flutter, opening to narrow slits that had the medic grinning in delight. “There you are,” he said, adding a moment later as the young man’s again began to close, “No, d’Artagnan, stay awake. I need to ask you some questions before you go back to sleep.”

 

d’Artagnan prised his lids open once more, blinking lazily as he tried to focus. There was a man leaning over him and the voice was familiar; Aramis, his brain supplied, recalling the name he’d heard just moments earlier. His mind struggled to understand why his friend looked so bleary even as he became aware of how much his body hurt. As the pain started to swell, his breathing hitched and he groaned lowly, his misery plain in the sound he’d emitted. The aches he felt seemed to come from every part of him, coalescing together to create a cruel tapestry of pain in which his body was encased. Deciding that the darkness was better, he began to close his eyes, only for the insistent tapping to reappear on his cheek. He let out a moan of irritation, wishing that whoever was tormenting him would just go away and leave him alone.

 

“d’Artagnan, I know you’re in pain, but I need to know where you’re hurt,” Aramis persisted, already diagnosing a likely concussion based on the boy’s level of awareness. Satisfied that the Gascon had stopped trying to close his eyes, the medic began to move his hands across the young man’s body, deciding to rely on physical reactions to his examination to identify the boy’s injuries since he currently seemed incapable of saying anything coherent.

 

The head wound was obvious and had bled a fair bit, and Aramis pressed his fingers lightly around the area to check the solidity of the young man’s skull. Satisfied that it was still intact, he moved to the boy’s shoulders, the Gascon whimpering when the left one was touched, the medic recognizing the misshapen feel of a dislocation. Continuing on, he ghosted his hands over the boys’ chest and abdomen next, receiving a similar pained reaction when he pressed on the left side and he added cracked or broken ribs to his mental list. When he’d finished, he stood and faced his friends, the two men waiting impatiently for his report.

 

“He’s suffered a head wound and likely a concussion. His left shoulder is dislocated and he’s either cracked or broken some of his ribs on the same side.” Sighing deeply, Aramis said, “That’s all I’ve found for now.”

 

“More than enough,” Athos breathed out, his fury at the dead bandits reigniting at the Gascon’s poor condition.

 

“Can he be moved?” Porthos asked, already preparing to apply his considerable strength to the task.

 

Aramis gave a nod as he replied, “Yes, but we’ll need to be careful. His injuries will cause him a great deal of discomfort and broken ribs can easily turn deadly.” Porthos gave a silent nod, even as he knelt down and prepared himself to lift the young man. “I’ll take his other side,” the medic stated, positioning himself on d’Artagnan’s left. At Aramis’ nod, Porthos lifted the Gascon’s torso up from the ground and ducked underneath his shoulder, the medic tugging at the other side since he would be unable to replicate the larger man’s hold due to the injured shoulder.

 

They barely had the young man on his feet before his eyes opened, his face puzzled as he looked from one man to the other. “Mis?” he slurred, swaying dangerously between his two friends. “P’thos?”

 

“Aye, lad, we’re both here and we’re gonna get you home,” Porthos said, grinning widely at being recognized.

 

d’Artagnan’s head nodded jerkily as he turned his face forward, blinking several times to bring the man in front of him into focus. Athos, his brain offered and he frowned, a memory tugging insistently. Something had happened between them and Athos had been upset. They’d argued and the older man’s pistol had discharged. He’d been shot, he recalled with a start, his body physically jerking in his friends’ hands, causing Aramis to worriedly ask, “Are you alright?”

 

d’Artagnan was shaking his head now, wondering why the older man was here after shooting him, clearly recognizing the pain in his left side where the ball from Athos’ pistol had glanced off a rib. “No, no, no,” he muttered, beginning to fight against his friends’ hold.

 

Seeing the distress in the Gascon’s eyes, Athos stepped forward to try and calm him but d’Artagnan lurched backwards, Porthos and Aramis barely able to maintain their grips. “d’Artagnan, what’s wrong?” Aramis asked, unable to hide his concern at the young man’s increasing agitation.

 

“Athos,” he mumbled, the older man taking a step forward again, causing the boy jolt backwards once more. “He shot me.”

 

The words were spoken softly but their impact was like a slap in the face, Athos recoiling physically as comprehension dawned; d’Artagnan was afraid of him.

 

Aramis and Porthos watched as despair flared in Athos’ eyes, the former rushing to console him, “It’s the head injury; he’s just confused.”

 

Athos nodded numbly, waving a hand as if to dismiss the young man’s earlier comments as he moved aside so the three could pass, the young man coming along willingly once the older man was out of his line of sight. As Aramis and Porthos worked to haul the Gascon back up the incline, the older man’s chest clenched painfully as he realized that, while his brother had been returned to him, he had also been cruelly snatched away. Athos wanted nothing more than to gather d’Artagnan into his arms and feel the beat of his heart against his chest, reassuring him that the boy still lived, but the Gascon wanted nothing more than to get away from him. A sob worked its way up the older man’s throat, and he swallowed it back down as he forced himself to follow in his friends’ footsteps.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he began to sway on his feet, despair building in his chest, d’Artagnan’s cracked and dry lips turned upwards in a faint smile, “Family.”

Their journey back to Paris had been no less than gruelling, d’Artagnan semi-conscious the entire way and his moments of awareness marked by varying levels of confusion. After repeats of the boy’s almost violent reaction to Athos’ presence, the older man had determinedly placed his horse several feet behind his friends and no amount of cajoling from the other two could make him change his mind and join them. Over the course of the two days that it to them to return, Aramis and Porthos worried in equal measure at the state of their friends’ health, the older man becoming increasingly quiet and withdrawn while d’Artagnan’s injured head and ribs left him barely coherent and continuously nauseous with pain. As a result, neither man had eaten much and Aramis wondered if he’d soon have a second patient to care for when Athos’ body eventually gave out.

 

The medic had been just as stressed as the other two, with the added pressure of being responsible for caring for the Gascon’s physical wounds in addition to the men’s mental anguish. When they’d finally stopped to properly assess and tend to the boy’s injuries, Aramis had discovered two additional lumps on the back of the young man’s head as well as a torso that was so covered with bruises that there was barely a spot of untouched skin to be found. He’d been able to confirm that two ribs were broken and, with Porthos’ assistance, had relocated the young man’s shoulder, an experience that had d’Artagnan howling in pain before he’d abruptly rolled to his side and gagged helplessly until he was spent. When the young man was done bringing up bile, Porthos had wiped away the sweat on his face as Aramis turned his attention to cleaning and wrapping the Gascon’s shredded wrists.

 

Athos had watched everything from afar, distancing himself from the group at even the slightest signs of awareness from the boy, enduring his self-enforced exile in silent agony, his fingers twitching with the need to be near and comfort the Gascon. While Aramis had wanted to argue, he grudgingly admitted that it would be less stressful on the young man if Athos were out of sight when d’Artagnan was awake, at least while the boy was still so befuddled from the effects of his concussion.

 

They’d arrived at the garrison on the evening of the second day, Athos stopping just inside the gates and dismounting, not even sparing a glance at his friends before striding up to the Captain’s office. He knew that the Gascon was in good hands and that Aramis and Porthos would deliver the boy to his room where the medic would be able to fuss over him in private. He would check in with them eventually, but in the meantime it was best to distract himself with duty and routine, going through the motions of reporting on their mission before visiting the kitchen to gather food for Aramis and Porthos. From there, his fate was intertwined with d’Artagnan’s and he would only stay if the boy was asleep or once more aware enough to recall the true details of the memory that currently tormented him. It was ironic, Athos mused, that the mission which had scared him the most and nearly took his new brother from him, was threatening to do so once more.

 

_“No,” Athos declared, absolutely unwilling to entertain the idea that had just been presented. His need to deal with Anne’s treachery was greater than that of anyone else present in the room, but he would not place d’Artagnan in harm’s way in order to accomplish the deed. No matter what his friends had to say, he would not be moved from his position._

_“Athos,” Treville began, keeping his tone even. “Milady must be dealt with. Surely you agree that the threat she poses is too great a risk to be ignored.”_

_Athos threw his Captain a scathing look, suggesting he was offended at the insinuation that he didn’t fully appreciate Milady’s position. Treville read his lieutenant’s expression correctly and sighed, “I’m sorry, Athos, I know you understand, but d’Artagnan represents our best opportunity to end things.”_

_The four men watched as Athos clamped his mouth shut, turning away from them to pace across the Captain’s office. What his friends suggested was valid, and it was true that Milady was a dangerous mix of intelligence and deviousness, meaning that whatever plan they concocted had to be cunning enough that Anne remained unsuspecting of their motives until it was too late for her to extricate herself from their trap._

_His eyes drifted momentarily to d’Artagnan as he turned and walked in the opposite direction, noting the raw need wafting from the Gascon for his approval. He ached desperately to provide it but could not articulate the fears he held about the proposed plan; it was not d’Artagnan he doubted, but himself. Would he be able to convince the woman he’d loved of his contempt for the vile creature she’d become? Did he have the strength to hold a pistol to her head while spewing words of hatred in her ear, assaulted by her scent and the warmth of her body pressed against his? Most importantly, would he have the fortitude to shoot his friend, his younger brother in every way except blood, and a man he held as dear to his heart as his own Thomas?_

_Belatedly, he realized that he was still the centre of attention in the room, the men around him standing quietly and allowing him the time he needed to come to terms with what had been asked of him. Treville’s face was neutral and Athos knew that despite the respect he held for the man, he had no compunction about ignoring his request, even if the Captain made it an order. Aramis’ face was tense with worry, the healer in him concerned about his friend’s state of mind and already racked with anxiety about the physical harm that d’Artagnan would intentionally suffer; Athos knew that it would be easy to convince the marksman of the folly of their proposed plan. Porthos stood as a pillar of strength, feet planted shoulder-width apart, giving him the appearance of being immovable, but underneath Athos knew the man possessed a kind and gentle heart and, if he appealed to his friend’s sympathetic nature, the larger man would also acquiesce._

_The Gascon’s expression was the most difficult to face, bearing a mix of pride, quiet eagerness, and an overwhelming need for acceptance. Athos had thought they’d move past this last one, fully welcoming him into their fold as a dear friend and brother when he’d earned his commission, but it seemed that the boy still required some reassurance. Athos drew breath to speak, only to close his mouth again on the meaningless platitudes he’d been about to offer – d’Artagnan would not be swayed by anything other than complete honesty. Perhaps he could appeal to the young man’s sense of family, explaining how afraid he was for the boy’s welfare, but he dismissed the idea even as it took shape, knowing that the Gascon’s pride would not accept such an explanation. The longer he held d’Artagnan’s gaze, the deeper his heart sank as he realized that there was only one answer he could offer that would not have the boy turning from him in disappointment._

_With resignation weighing heavily on him, Athos nodded, “Alright.” The word was barely discernable but he knew the moment d’Artagnan heard it, the young man striding confidently forward to grasp him by the arms as he met his mentor’s gaze and said, “I promise, I won’t disappoint you.”_

_He pulled Athos close for a quick hug and while the older man revelled in the embrace, he could not help but think, “But what if I disappoint you?”_  

* * *

Aramis and Porthos had worked in tandem to settle d’Artagnan into his bed, undressing his pliable form as he barely managed to stay seated on the edge of his mattress. By the time the two had lowered the Gascon to lay flat on the bed, his eyes had drifted close and he was blissfully unaware; that is, he was unaware of events in the conscious realm. Underneath closed lids, his eyes began to dance with dreams almost at once, reliving the discord that had risen between him and Athos.

 

_“You slept with her?” Athos repeated, the words more a statement of fact than a question, with the answer written plainly on the Gascon’s anguished face. The revelation was startling, spurring immediate feelings of jealousy at the thought of another man lying with his wife. “Not your wife!” another voice in his head screamed, reminding him of the woman’s deceit and her role in the death of his brother. His initial emotions were quickly supplanted by fear, concern surging forward for the safety of the man in front of him. d’Artagnan had little experience with Anne’s cunning ways and he was too naïve by far to be able to deal with a woman as gifted as Milady in the arts of deception and seduction._

_Athos’ eyes flickered to the Gascon for a moment and he noted the strain in the young man’s expression, belying the incredible distress that gripped him at his mentor’s reaction. The older man knew it was within his power to erase the look from his protégé’s face, but he found himself hesitating, a part of him wanting the boy to be punished for what he’d done while another part hoped that the young man would be frightened into avoiding the woman in the future. Neither outcome was rational, but he found himself unable to think clearly as he dealt with the strong emotions that d’Artagnan’s confession had evoked._

_Dropping his head wearily, Athos pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing against the throb in his head that echoed each overly quick beat of his heart. He felt his last vestiges of control slipping away, slowly succumbing to the madness of the young man’s proclamation. Steeling himself, he tried to keep the fury and hurt from his tone as he pinned the boy with an unforgiving glare and said, “I trusted you.”_

_d’Artagnan flinched at the words, his face blanching as he processed their multiple meanings, clearly having considered the possibility of Athos’ poor response to his news: betrayer, adulterer, traitor. Again, the older man found himself hovering on the edge of forgiveness, only to fall back into the churning sea of doubt at the Gascon’s intentions. Why had he waited so long to confess? Had he actively encouraged Milday’s affections? Was he somehow in league with the woman who’d ruined his life?_

_“No!” the voice of reason shouted at him; d’Artagnan was many things but he could no more betray a friend than a snake could change its character. The boy had proven himself steadfast and true, standing by their sides on so many occasions that the details blurred together into a dizzying collage, but one thing remained the same and that was the Gascon’s constancy. Another quick glance at the young man showed how his outward mask of strength was crumbling, the first cracks appearing in the crinkled skin around his eyes and the desperation in his posture. Soon, the boy would break, tears filling his eyes as he pleaded with Athos to be forgiven, his words tumbling out too quickly to understand. A jerky breath rose in Athos’ chest at how close he’d come to etching the devastation on d’Artagnan’s face permanently._

_The boy hadn’t offered a single word in his defence, likely believing himself deserving of Athos’ contempt but the older man found himself unable to summon anything other than love now that he’d broken through the floodgate of harsh emotions. There was only clarity left and for once in his life, he knew exactly what to do. Stepping forward, he pulled the boy close, embracing him and surprised at how the young man melted into his arms, the tension flowing from his body in a rush as he gripped Athos so tightly that the Musketeer was certain he would have bruises later._

_d’Artagnan’s head pressed into Athos’ shoulder and he wept soft, quiet sobs that made the older man’s heart ache with remorse. He loved this boy like a brother and had nearly lost him because of Milady’s meddling. In that moment, a new certainty filled him and he made a silent promise; no matter what, he would end her machinations so that none of his brothers would ever suffer at her hand again._

 

The Gascon shifted minutely on the bed, Aramis leaning forward expectantly only to sit back in his chair again as it became clear that the boy was no closer to waking than the previous times he’d moved. Sighing, the medic shook his head sadly at Porthos and Athos, the two men seated near the window as they waited for their friend’s awareness to return.

 

_Athos’ eyes were haunted and the spittle that flecked his lips as he spoke made him look unhinged; overall, it was the effect they’d been going for but it still made d’Artagnan shudder. “Athos, no,” he cried as the older man held Milady by the throat, the woman vibrating in fear at her husband’s actions. It was obvious that they’d accomplished their deception and Anne was wholly convinced that Athos had finally gone mad and, in a fit of drunken rage, was about to make good on his threat to end her life. Porthos’ and Aramis’ voices had joined d’Artagnan’s, the three men pleading with the older Musketeer to see reason and release his wife, but Athos only increased the pressure of his hold, making Milady gasp in reply. “d’Artagnan, help me, he’s gone mad,” she pleaded._

_Now it was Athos’ turn to move their drama along, his slurred words flung across the distance between them, the accusation obvious in his wine-soaked stare, “You know her?”_

_The Gascon clearly recalled the pain of his admission to his mentor and his reaction was honest, the rawness of the experience making him wince as the truth of his relationship with the woman was revealed to everyone present on the street._

_“So she’s your mysterious benefactor,” Aramis stated, the guilt that shadowed the young man’s face providing confirmation. “Are you lovers, too?”_

_Even though the Gascon knew the words had been designed for maximum effect, he still cringed. His answer was breathless, his desperation to be believed infusing his words, “Once, before I knew you.”_

_“You slept with her,” Porthos confirmed, disgust making his voice low and dangerous._

_“You don’t understand,” d’Artagnan countered, breaking off as the larger man shoved him, forcing him to take a step back in order to regain his balance._

_“You kept the truth from me,” Athos declared, the flatness of the man’s tone eerily reminiscent of the night when the young man had admitted his involvement with the woman._

_“No, Athos, I swear, I didn’t know, I didn’t know.” The young man was pleading now in a vain attempt to reason with the inebriated man._

_“Well now you must choose, d’Artagnan,” Athos declared, a wildness imbuing his expression. “If you help her, you’re not fit to call yourself a Musketeer.”_

_“I can’t let you murder her,” the Gascon confessed, hoping that some part of his mentor would respond to his plaintive tone._

_“d’Artagnan, help me,” Milady cried once more, sensing she was close to convincing the boy to come to her aid._

_As the Gascon began to move forward, Porthos stepped into his path and restrained him while Aramis tried to reason with the older man who had now raised and aimed his pistol at d’Artagnan. “Hey, let’s talk about this, Athos; put it down.”_

_“Stop this at once; that is an order,” Treville’s commanding voice barked as he strode into the square, Porthos putting up his hands in supplication as he took a step away from the Gascon._

_The moment of distraction was all that d’Artagnan needed and he launched himself at Athos, the surprise on his face registering a second before he hears someone cry “d’Artagnan, no” and then the pistol fired. The adrenaline masks the initial pain of the wound, but the Gascon is stunned at the blow to his side that feels as though someone has punched him. His hand moves to the site automatically, his legs already beginning to weaken despite his brain’s belief that he’s fine. Seconds later he’s staggering backwards, barely recognizing Athos’ voice as he shouts, “You fool.”_

_Then he’s falling, his eyes closing without his permission and he doesn’t feel himself land on the cold cobblestones of the street, surrounded by Aramis, Treville and Porthos, the latter tapping his cheek with a desperate plea, “Stay awake, stay awake.” On some level he hears the words but his body refuses to comply with the demand, the ache in his chest sending out fiery tendrils that short-circuit his brain. With Athos’ expression burned in his memory, he allows himself to finish falling, dropping into a dark void in which the pain fades away._

“No,” he mumbled, the sensation of falling startling him and making his hands jump as they groped for something to hang onto. At the mumbled word, Aramis leaned forward tensely, his hand slipping around the Gascon’s and gripping it tightly, pleased when d’Artagnan’s hold on him increased slightly.

 

“d’Artagnan, wake up,” the medic coaxed, heartened by the first real signs of awareness the boy had shown in three days. The men had barely left his side, either Aramis or Porthos always present since the young man’s mental state was still too fragile for him to wake to Athos’ face. Despite that fact, the older man had been a constant in the boy’s room, jumping hastily to his feet at each false sign of waking to scurry into the hallway and out of sight. Aramis barely glanced in the older man’s direction as Athos moved to hide again, praying not only that the young man would wake, but that he would finally be coherent enough to remember the friendship the two men shared.

 

Their days had been long but their nights had been longer, offering no distractions from the guilt that plagued Athos’ every moment, his thoughts consumed with that fateful night when his shot had hit d’Artagnan in the side, while his nightmares conjured images of the boy lying dead in the street where he’d fallen. Porthos and Aramis did their best to coax him from his melancholy state but they were unable to give him the one thing he needed the most – the knowledge that he was still forgiven and welcome to be a part of the young man’s life. So, as he waited for the boy to wake and absolve him, he sleep-walked through the days, spending his hours either in stillness in the chair he’d claimed as his own, or fetching food and supplies to allow his friends to care, uninterrupted, for the Gascon.

 

In the evenings, he continued to punish himself, limiting himself to two glasses of wine and denying himself the escape that several bottles would offer. He’d caught both Aramis and Porthos looking at him worriedly, when he was no longer able to hide the trembling in his hands or the gauntness of his features as the lack of proper food and rest took its toll, breaking him down one fibre at a time. Despite his friends’ concerns, he’d thwarted all of their attempts to get him to eat and sleep, certain that he deserved the penance he was inflicting upon himself, both for his past actions and for taking so long to find d’Artagnan after he’d been captured during their latest mission.

 

"d'Artagnan, stay awake," the oddly familiar words drifted to Athos’ ears as he leaned against the wall outside the boy’s open door, waiting to hear whether the young man was finally aware or not. “That’s it,” Aramis’ voice said, the tone sounding more encouraging than it had in days and hope flared in the older man’s chest.

 

The voices turned quiet after that and Athos felt a pang of disappointment, assuming that the Gascon was unconscious again and unable to bring himself to walk back into the room to see the boy lying so unusually still. He tipped his head against the wall behind him, closing his eyes as he tried to control his emotions, the strain of the past week climaxing and making his throat tight. A warm hand on his arm had him jumping, not having heard anyone approach. His eyes popped open to be faced with Porthos’ concerned expression, and Athos could not help but wish for the man to give him some glimmer of hope. As if reading his mind, Porthos gripped his arm more firmly as he said, “He’s awake.”

 

Athos’ breath hitched in a sob as the larger man leaned forward to place his forehead on Athos’ own, holding him by both arms to steady him as the older man came to terms with what he’d been told. They stayed that way for several long seconds before Porthos lifted his head and smiled at his friend, “Come on; it’s time.” He tugged at Athos’ arm as he led him back into the young man’s room, the older man stopping after only a couple of steps. “What if it’s too soon?” he asked, his voice broken with fear.

 

Porthos offered another gentle smile as he prompted him back into motion, “It’s not.”

 

Athos followed his friend inside, the larger man moving aside as they approached the bed to reveal a pleased Aramis and the too pale features of d’Artagnan’s face. The older man stopped a few feet from the bed, waiting for the boy to focus on him and holding his breath as he watched for any indications of distress. Aramis turned to him and extended a hand, beckoning him forward as he said, “It’s alright.”

 

Two tentative steps had Athos at d’Artagnan’s bedside, the boy’s eyes tracking him even though he’d only managed to open them to half-mast. At Aramis’ nod of encouragement, Athos cleared his throat and asked, “How are you?” He knew the words were insufficient given everything that had transpired, but he was truly at a loss until he received some sort of sign from the young man.

 

“Athos,” d’Artagnan whispered, his voice hoarse from days of disuse and weak from everything he’d endured.

 

The older man swallowed thickly, pleased at being recognized but still gripped by trepidation. Licking his lips, he queried, “Do you recognize me?” The young man furrowed his brow and Athos counted the seconds that ticked by, beginning to feel light-headed as time continued to pass in silence. As he began to sway on his feet, despair building in his chest, d’Artagnan’s cracked and dry lips turned upwards in a faint smile, “Family.”

 

Athos’ knees buckled and he found himself sinking into the chair that Porthos had pushed behind him, placing him next to d’Artagnan’s bed and within reach of the young man who was looking at him worriedly. “You alright?” the Gascon asked, his voice still barely above a whisper but the sweetest sound the older man had heard in days.

 

Placing his hand on the young man’s uninjured shoulder, he squeezed gently as he replied, “I am now.”

 

d’Artagnan was puzzled by his friend’s answer but as his gaze moved from Athos to Porthos and then to Aramis, he found nothing but relief and satisfaction on their faces and decided that everything was alright. He’d woken after experiencing endless dreams about Athos and Milady and it had been a blessing when he’d woken to see the medic’s face. Aramis had already helped him drink a draught for his pain after rambling on about stubborn Gascons who refused to wake or eat, but he’d tuned it out, the one man he was desperate to see missing from the room.

 

Porthos had picked up on it immediately and had gently interrupted Aramis’ flow of words, nodding towards the door and indicating his intentions. The larger man’s actions seemed to calm the medic and he’d quieted then, propping d’Artagnan up with an extra pillow before holding a cup to his lips. He’d just settled down again, already feeling the pull of sleep as the various aches of his body began to dull, but he refused to succumb until he knew Athos was well.

 

Now that he’d both seen and spoken with the man, he was satisfied that everything was well in hand; he’d escaped the bandits’ clutches and been found by his friends, and the three men now surrounded him creating a cocoon of safety and comfort. It had been quite some time since he’d felt this way, but he recognized the feeling at once – it was the way he’d felt when he was at home and surrounded by his family. With that thought firmly entrenched in his mind, he allowed his eyes to close and finally slipped into a restful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who came along for this story and for those of you who were kind enough to comment and leave kudos. As always, I'm sad for the story to be over and, if you feel the same, I encourage you to check out AZGirl's Almost Family for a lovely epilogue in her chapter 25 tag. I've begun working on my next story and hope to be back in about a month - hope you'll join me then.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Almost Family](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4537776) by [AZGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/pseuds/AZGirl)




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